A Pain in the RSS

I think. Long tortured, convoluted thoughts about everything, about nothing. In the empty moments, between doing what I was doing and doing what I will be doing, my brain runs away from itself. Slavishly my conscious gives way to the misguided burblings of my sub-conscious. The topics are often the same: who am I? what am I? where am I? Questions without answers create, there, an unabated rhetorical world. A man seemingly capable, confident, successful rendered useless by the lack of limits in his own chattering mind.

I read. Biographies of political figures – men and women whose lives are meaningful and significant to others. I drink in their anecdotes – marvel at their ordinariness and wonder whether my own normality measures up to the normality of those I hold in such esteem. I consume industry references, gleaning insights, observing patterns and remembering passages for quoting back at a later date to impress my friends. I horde books on my shelves – never, well rarely, for re-reading, but rather to signal to the world, signal to myself, that I am well read, I am smart… as though every page in each book on every shelf raises me a notch on the intellectual ladder, superior to the next person. It’s about self-esteem. I am pretentiously bibliophilic!

I love. My wife, my family, my friends. I love with an earnest longing that I find myself unable to express, if only for the reason that my brain tells me possessing a love that can’t be fully expressed makes me somehow more interesting, more enigmatic. I want them to know how important they are to me, but I’m not sure how important they are, really. I don’t allow myself to feel as deeply as I might – and I miss out on days, moments, years of un-lived life, a feeble protection for myself against the inevitable pain that would eventually ensue for having allowed myself to give myself over completely.

This is my blog – a shameless act of self-indulgence, to which I bid you welcome.