This may be my last public post for a while. That doesn’t mean I won’t write, only that I won’t necessarily share what I’ve written. Considering the extremely low traffic to my blog and the almost non-existent feedback I receive (what I get I truly appreciate, but it’s really very, very slim), the effort I expend in making my posts more readable just isn’t worth the energy, to me. I’d rather devote what little stamina I have to more volume than to more “perfection.” Plus, of course, I might want to invest time and energy to making my posts more appealing to a broader audience, an audience that might give me more feedback. Chicken and egg stuff, you know.
Lest my few loyal readers think otherwise, I’m not complaining about your lack of feedback. I just think my time might be better spent creating new content than repairing what I write. And I’ll always have something to share, when the time is right.
That having been said, let me go on to the post that will stand alone for a while.
I miss pieces of my life that seem recent until I start to measure their distance from the present. Twenty-seven years. Eighteen years. Thirty years. Forty years. Twenty-one years. Those distant moments were close, once. Those fresh experiences aren’t fresh any more, though they feel fresh and new and invigorating. How is it that time can get away from us? How can we stumble across many years without realizing it? How can we waste time by failing to remember those moments? Time is in short supply; I can say that with absolute certainty. We don’t have much of it; we never realize how little is available for us to spend in matters of absolute frivolity and impossible meaninglessness.
One piece of my life I miss involves someone who once was my friend but who disappeared from my life. I won’t go into any more detail than that; it’s not necessary. But that vacancy remains open and empty, as if something had just been excised from a place in my heart. There are more than one, of course. People disappear from our lives all the time. But some of them leave traces, outlines, comfortable resting places that are no longer pleasant in their absence.
I wrote just the other day (was it yesterday or the day before?) about loneliness. It’s still with me. It occurs to me that pieces of me went with my friends, the ones who disappeared. I wonder whether they ever think of me? One of my favorite pieces of music is a song by the Moody Blues entitled “Your Wildest Dreams.” The verse that always grabs me is this one:
I wonder if you think about me
Once upon a time
In your wildest dreams
The important stuff of the day, like the impeachment of Donald Trump, doesn’t resonate with me at the moment. More important to me are the connections, both lost and current, that keep me grounded to a world that matters.
I hope I am thinner and in better physical condition by the next time I post here. That may be a while. I don’t plan on “easing up” on my food intake nor do I plan to focus on exercise until after the first of the year. And I won’t starve myself, nor will I push myself to the limits, when my regimen of better health begins. But I will engage, sometime before long. And maybe my more attractive physical appearance, when all that’s done, will generate more interest in what I write. I don’t plan to become famous, but I wish what I write mattered more than it does. Both fiction and rants like this one. And poetry. I’m really a bad poet, I fear. But I’ll keep writing. I will write until I can write no more. But I won’t necessarily share it as if what I write matters. I’d rather not delude myself in that way.