Swirls of White and Blue

May 23, 4:12 am.

I'm struggling.

Not in the noble sense.  Not in any sense.  Probably most in nonsense.  Perhaps that's the hardest part of it.

... you know, I wish this silly journal of mine looked like I designed it to look--with the pretty mountains, and the lake in the background.  There's solace for me there, in the swirls of white and blue just above the cut lines of the mountains craggy peaks.  But no.  It's a hauntingly empty snowstorm of white, with cruel black letters bearing witness to my fragmented thoughts.  And so here I am, switching from this typing screen to majesty--the pretty mountains, and the lake, and the swirls of white and blue.  Oh for majesty; for swirls of white and blue.

I'd offer a disclaimer, but I don't want to discredit my words.  Yet the place in which my thoughts accumulate is vague and unsure.  I'm sleep-deprived, I'm... I'm just not in a good place.  I watched two movies featuring story lines with heavy psycho(patho)logical plot lines:  "Hard Candy," and "The Woodsman."  Perhaps not the best choice; perhaps the best choice.  Suggestion, revelation--do your own psychoanalysis... frankly, I don't care much for the ramifications of your formed opinion, because this. is. for me.

I think I'm struggling.
I think I'm struggling a lot.

I'm not sleeping at night, I can't focus well in the day.  I see no way in which Step 1 can pass without leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.  I feel shot.  Done.  Like a laundry sheet that's been through so many times, you mistake it for lace.

I feel like a shell of something that once used to be alive.  Now, I'm just faking it, keeping up appearances so that life goes on.  Time ticks by.  The ride keeps going, but I don't feel I can keep alert.  Everything that was once sacred, was once meaningful--I think I've squandered.  Now they are shells and shadows of what I used to know; I feel like a fraud.  Because I can't see the majesty, the swirls of white and blue.

And to be honest... I'm really glad that very few people read this blog.  I can spill my thoughts out, in solitude, with a pittance of memento, of a chronicle, or record, something of substance onto which, over the years, my soul can spill.

Swirls of white and blue.