![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I just wrote an anonoymous letter to a not-so-anonymous fuckhead, then deleted it all.
Maybe I am growing tame in my slowly-advancing age, but so many things just don't spark that growling flame of ire that once spat so readily through my brain.
I still get angry, don't get me wrong. 99% of my time is spent seething with undisclosed irritation. But, I'm less prone to acting on it. More likely to keep my mouth shut.
It's probably those damnable grey funk spots I've been battling with for the past handful of years. I reckon and realize that I've got an enormous amount of woe for someone my age, but it doesn't change how it makes me feel. Living life while looking through cotton batting isn't pleasant.
I don't write anymore. It's a struggle to even put words down in this format, that of my Livejournal. Used to be I would make several posts a day, long rambling posts full of my daisyhead spattering on and on about any given subject.
There's no energy left inside.
Not even when I'm angry or hateful or arm-flapping excited about something shiny I've brought back to the nest.
Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and saw the new crop of silver hair growing from my head. I haven't dyed it in many months, not since I tried a new brand and thusly spent the next month sporting weeping chemical burns on my ears, neck, and back. There's so many of them now, those white glinting threads. They stand out terribly, even against the mouse-blonde of my roots.
Age doesn't bother me all that much. Not unless I start thinking about how I'm the same age as my mother when she had me or who's going to take care of me when I get old and decrepit or what it's going to feel like in my heart when I lose my last parent and know that I finally have no family left to turn to for comforting.
I have a ticking time bomb in my genetics, I just don't know what name is on its label. No one in my family is long-lived. I don't think there's a damn one on the maternal side, in recent memory, who made it past sixty-five or so. Crazy bayou frogs, the lot of them.
My paternal side is only slightly better, slightly different. Dorothea, my father's mother and the explanation for the majority of my odd idiosyncrantic behaviour, was pushing eighty-five when she finally left go of life. But everyone else? I'm not quite sure. Younger though, definitely.
I don't know what I'm getting at, to be quite honest. Last night, I laid in bed and shook with frustration that I can't seem to write anymore. The Engineer told me that it'll come back, that he goes through the same bouts of desert dry-ness where it seems like every ounce of art has left forever and will never show its face again.
What I need to do is shake this bullshit funk from my skin. It takes time, but I have never been a patient person.
Maybe I am growing tame in my slowly-advancing age, but so many things just don't spark that growling flame of ire that once spat so readily through my brain.
I still get angry, don't get me wrong. 99% of my time is spent seething with undisclosed irritation. But, I'm less prone to acting on it. More likely to keep my mouth shut.
It's probably those damnable grey funk spots I've been battling with for the past handful of years. I reckon and realize that I've got an enormous amount of woe for someone my age, but it doesn't change how it makes me feel. Living life while looking through cotton batting isn't pleasant.
I don't write anymore. It's a struggle to even put words down in this format, that of my Livejournal. Used to be I would make several posts a day, long rambling posts full of my daisyhead spattering on and on about any given subject.
There's no energy left inside.
Not even when I'm angry or hateful or arm-flapping excited about something shiny I've brought back to the nest.
Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and saw the new crop of silver hair growing from my head. I haven't dyed it in many months, not since I tried a new brand and thusly spent the next month sporting weeping chemical burns on my ears, neck, and back. There's so many of them now, those white glinting threads. They stand out terribly, even against the mouse-blonde of my roots.
Age doesn't bother me all that much. Not unless I start thinking about how I'm the same age as my mother when she had me or who's going to take care of me when I get old and decrepit or what it's going to feel like in my heart when I lose my last parent and know that I finally have no family left to turn to for comforting.
I have a ticking time bomb in my genetics, I just don't know what name is on its label. No one in my family is long-lived. I don't think there's a damn one on the maternal side, in recent memory, who made it past sixty-five or so. Crazy bayou frogs, the lot of them.
My paternal side is only slightly better, slightly different. Dorothea, my father's mother and the explanation for the majority of my odd idiosyncrantic behaviour, was pushing eighty-five when she finally left go of life. But everyone else? I'm not quite sure. Younger though, definitely.
I don't know what I'm getting at, to be quite honest. Last night, I laid in bed and shook with frustration that I can't seem to write anymore. The Engineer told me that it'll come back, that he goes through the same bouts of desert dry-ness where it seems like every ounce of art has left forever and will never show its face again.
What I need to do is shake this bullshit funk from my skin. It takes time, but I have never been a patient person.
