trying for real this time

Blogging is simply a weird phenomenon. I think I can do it because I'm pretty sure no one reads this. So I have some imaginary motivation to write but no consequences since it's just out there in the forest of cyberspace just being my words in a backdrop of absolutely nothing. But, I've had the writing itch lately. Maybe because I took a couple knocks to the head so it feels like there is less room in there for thoughts and brains and words and more smeared and wasted brain tissue. Seriously, I've never had a concussion but I'm pretty sure this was one. I didn't notice it until I sobered up, probably 24-48 after the guilty impact. And life has been a bit more of a struggle since then, getting slowly better though.

Anyway, the point is that I feel like I am sort of drowning in my own thoughts lately. It's not stuff I necessarily want to blog about. I really think a lot of it is my damn headache and neck tension since this weekend. But, I feel like a crazy person when I step back and look at my life from outside of it all. Like, I am sleeping in a piece of shit old bed, poorly. I wake up a ton at night, sometimes from carpal tunnel, sometimes it might be the streetlights, other times I'm not sure why. And I have two big ass dogs sleeping five feet away on a couch I grew up on, which is steadily turning into the nastiest courdoroyed dirtbag that's ever existed. But, they sleep so damn well on it I can't kick them off of it, and it's probably bound for the dump soon anyway. My belongings are mostly strewn around my room or the attic, which I'm terrified to venture into because it's just everything I've ever owned ever, knee deep. I'm such a damn pack rat because I'm constantly moving and never really settled, even when I think I am. And all the junk from my past is procrastinated on and then just thrown back into boxes and dumped into whatever place is my next home. And I keep waking up in this mess but seem unable to take the time to clean it up. And of course I'm speaking both to reality and whatever metaphorical stupidness I can put it on. My life was so damn scripted. It was all ready for me, every square inch of it. And now, when I am driving and thinking, I pull back from it all and see it as it is. I'm 25 and that's it. There's nothing else. The geography is the same, that's it. All the details are dust and it's weird to feel it in my fingers. For the most part I'm still after the same things. There's still that farm, eventually. There's still the family I wish I saw more. There's still fire, if that ever happens. But, I feel so disconnected from where I've been. I know I'm shutting a lot of this out and just letting life sort of wash over me right now. I know I could be feeling a lot more if I had the inclination to do so. But, it's okay where it's at. I spend my days driving around in my truck, playing fetch with the dogs, writing workouts, doing workouts, going to rugby practice, drinking beer, sometimes I see family, often I see friends. And I think that's enough right now. I have high hopes for this summer. I don't know why it matters so much to me but it does. At least the hope in it all.

1. branches smooth from being climbed hundreds of times
2. driving with the windows down