Burberry Blues

I thought about writing last week. I thought about it a lot. I just couldn’t make myself do it. The words sat there, percolating….unformed…uncertain….A few happy thoughts and feelings, but a lot of unhappy ones, too. Sometimes I’m not even certain why I am even feeling what I’m feeling (on any number of subjects), and that makes communicating about those subjects, and frankly….everything….much more difficult.

I’ve just been chugging through life this past week, without really pondering the impact of my words or actions – stuck in an torpid stupor of physical inactivity and mental lethargy. Feeling some regret for some of my actions, and feeling stupid for not taking action when the moment was appropriate.

And now….when the urge to write strikes and I summon the strength to commit my words to paper…um…screen….I think about what purpose these posts/blogs really serve?

Are they just observations?

Or are they some sort of plea, some sort of explanation, some sort of rationalization for my life to anyone who may stumble across them?

I wish that everything I posted here was a charming story, some witty recap, some clever little observation. It’s probably much more fun for you to read. But sometimes….sometimes those stories, those recaps, those observations are just exercises in redirection, dear reader. God knows that I never put it ALL out there for ya.

Will you really get to know me better if I write about a failed expectation, an unhappy situation, a disappointing relationship, an argument, a confrontation, a bill collector calling?

Will I just seem much more interesting if all I write about is going out with friends to clever little night spots, about nights dancing to good music, about getting free dessert from a foxy little waitress and about how sassy I felt when some hunkarific fella admired my faux Burberry hat?

I dunno.

Maybe just putting it out there is enough.

At least for now.