One was too negative (although realistic about circumstances), the other I can't remember what stalled it's publication.
Many other times I have sat down to write something and just shrugged off the notion altogether - a mix of laziness, rebellion and ennui. Sometimes I can't muster up the positive energy to commit to forming a sentient, honest, current expression of my head space. Living it, it seems, is challenge enough.
I don't need to write stuff down because....
It's too complex.
It's too obvious.
It's too personal.
It's too confronting.
There are always plenty of reasons. Plus, I ask myself, what is the point of doing it at all? Who is it for? What is it for? What am I trying to achieve?
And these are good questions.
When I am actually into it, writing one or having just finished writing one; it all makes sense.
It's about uncovering truth. Investigating the depths and recesses. It's about detaching from my attachment to self and observing and reporting on what is occurring.
This can be beneficial because it offers insight and clarity.
It takes courage to speak out, to reveal one's inner workings. A bit of courage. And abandon. And trust. And devil-may-care attitude. In the end, after all, we'll all be dust - so why be precious. Why not mine whatever the present presents for some nuggets of interest?
Having a dialogue with one's self is amusing. It can be elevating.
Because time keeps moving on and we continue to evolve - nothing is set in stone. Nothing is permanent. All the notions and conceits, the dreams and delusions - grand and petite; all leaves in the wind. Clouds. Raindrops.
This is not me.
This is just me at the moment.
Tomorrow I will be different. And the next day again. And on.
So, it's amusing to carve a few scratches in the wall. It's something to do. It's a passing conversation. On record. It's the voice of one of billions. The tiny peep of a little bird. A glint in the sky.
This evening, after dinner, I lay down and fell asleep. I woke up and felt rested. I had gone far, far away, in dream. My slumber erased the day, the thoughts and feelings, and left me with a clean slate. It was refreshing.
We want to live and we want to experience but we also want to be fresh and ready for what is to come. It's such a complex, miraculous system. There is no real way to properly comprehend or explain what life is. We just keep going.
We think we know but we don't. And yet, somehow, we kind of do. Rather exquisite, confounding, tantalising.
Like this brief monologue: something but nothing.