ridiculous

reviving an old standby for posting material: the purple journal. after all, it is friday...

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I have been feeling lately that I haven't any words. I have nothing to say or write which stems from a lack of words forming into meaningful thoughts inside the brain. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? And terribly boring. And I should add that it is inopportune. And maybe that is the point.

I could read more. There is no lack of cleverly formulated thoughts or beautifully wrought word pictures to stir the imagination, or emotion, or tangent.

I could engage in engaging conversation with someone inspiring. I should add 'more' in there: engage in more conversation with engaging persons of inspirational qualities. Two live with me, thankfully, otherwise I would be forced to talk to myself, and well, you can guess where that would get me. Mostly hand gestures and the beating of the head on the table. Usually someone gets home in time to rescue me from absolute frustration-induced anger which would cause me to throw the computer, or myself, or both against the wall.

It is obvious why many people surround themselves with those they feel more inferior. I fight the impulse. Yes, it is embarrassing to have admit the impulse exists. It is just that the larger I get, the smaller, thinner, everyone else is getting; like I am eating up the pounds they are sloughing off. And the more elegant another's paragraphs are in eloquent times has me wondering where that ringing between my ears has come from. I am not dumbstruck, but struck dumb. Mostly I begin to feel helpless as everyone else seems overwhelmingly capable—nauseatingly capable. It must be nauseating because the perfection makes my flaws crawl into my digestive track and jump up and down.

I suppose if I had to find a crowd, I might find a group of infants wallowing on their bellies, possibly squalling. They could be happily playing with their toes. But they have a reason to be where they are. I am sure I am not exempt, having a reason for my muteness (which sounds remarkably like mutiny). I haven't the words to explain how, or why, nor the detailed plan for my return to where expectations lie.

Or: It is not that everything else is smaller, more eloquent, more beautiful, more capable, or happier. It is that I feel the definite lack of all those things. While looking for the things I should already have, I haven't the time to find the things I would like to adorn myself with, to better myself from, or to lend to anyone else.

I can be ridiculous, and it feels completely genuine. Is it because I am, ridiculous...