Having one of those, "what the fuck am I doing?" sort of moments.
Just got back from some event where I helped a bunch of old/new friends piece together a large thing a bunch of other friends built for some other event. It was fairly enjoyable and I was happy to help my friends make a pretty awesome project exist in a space again, though I feel like I've burnt off a week and have sort of thrown my health into the shitter. For art, for fun, for friends, right?
Biking down to the Mission earlier tonight was a bad idea, all the Codeine in the world doesn't seem to be enough and the Penicillin isn't working fast enough, or so I think and feel. Additionally all of my cycling strength seems gone. I lay in bed wondering what position will possibly provide me with more then just five minutes of rest before the torrent of coughing comes back.
It's funny that even without a real job I some how am unable to find/make time for my own projects and personal ventures. Funny in a sad way. I feel like I haven't made anything with my own two hands, for myself, in a long while, and can't come up with a good reason on why is that, or if it's even all that bad.
I recognize now that, a while ago, I was motivated to make things for myself, and others, because a particular person existed in my life. Then I suppose I wasn't making these things for myself, was I? I think I was, you think that way when you share your life with someone.
I'm missing the company of some and shunning away the company of others. Yes that was meant to be extremely cryptic and blatantly blunt at the same time. Don't read into it too far unless you like scraping bull shit off of your shoes. And if you're at this point now, reading this, go find a stick and hope that you were wearing some sort of shoe like device.
Oh please don't be fooled, I find all this volatile unknown pleasing. If one knew what was coming, then the only thing coming would be boredom. Such as swapping a flat tire with a to be ultimately doomed spare tire soaked to the bone in freezing rain on the side of a busy highway, the future is best left reforgotten.
Part of me wishes for a year or two to pass by in the blink of an eye, my eye. I want things to move on/evolve/continue drastically, without giving me time to adapt previous patterns into new. Such a shock that I'll have trouble remembering the old.
Let all that there was of which has died off to fall into a black hole void of any memory, leaving only what is new to start and survive without being drowned out by the past I still continue to carry.