*let me preface this post by saying that my writing takes on a very sombre tone at the end of November. Sorry.
There are times in my life that I long for change.
Not just something insignificant but something radical and life altering—a positive cataclysmic changing of the tides.
Maybe it’s the fact that I am presently walking through the autumnal phase of my life, a time of maturity and transformation.
The changes I seek are most human and mundane at best: health, financial status, vocation, a creative chasm that I can never seem to fill.
This craving for change usually gets shoved violently aside in order to accommodate all the other messed up shit in my life.
Mornings find me hopeful but by night I find myself saying, ah, fuck it, and I go to bed praying that my weirdo dreams bring some semblance of cognitive understanding and solace regarding my sometimes all too turbulent existence.
It was only a short time ago that I posted this so it appears that this penchant for change is here to play house, longtime.
I am beginning to understand and even accept that the only thing I can truly change is internal. If you’re thinking, ah, Michael—I wouldn’t change a gosh darn thing, then you don’t know me very well.
Hell, sometimes I don’t even know me.
I find it interesting that my blog exudes something of a personality that readers perceive to be purely me.
While that concept is for the most part true, there’s so much more.
Ask my wife. (She’ll just roll her eyes)
We ‘writer’ types are many things, some of which we let the world see while others get embedded deep within our words, our writing, and our darkened little souls.
It comes as no surprise to me that there are people that have little to no clue about the real ‘Michael’. They think they do but they really, really don’t.
They don’t want to ‘see’ the real me.
I am in the midst of a moment in my life where I’m having a hard time seeing the forest through the trees.
Christmas is upon us so I attribute much of my current disdain to a fast approaching holiday I can scarcely afford much less happily (and willingly) participate in.
This time of the year royally sucks when paying the mortgage takes president over what you feel you should be able do for your children.
I’m really tired of fighting the daily moneyGod.
All I want for Christmas this year is a miracle, like every year. . .
I’m not looking for any free psychoanalysis here just letting my complicated landscape of a mind wander for a bit. This kind of post makes it feel strangely liberated.
If you’ve yet to figure it out, I am one dark individual. . .
But if I can’t be a piece of dark chocolate here, then where?
Thanks for reading and letting my grey matter roam free for a bit.