I Dunno

I don't know how to say this.

I start to think I do, but when I give it contemplation, it's all wrong.

It seems like there are things welling up from inside that I want to write down. It's not as if I don't have ideas.

But there's some sort of cold, large stone inside me that dashes those ideas to shards. They are too silly, too uninteresting for others to read, not compelling enough to exert the energy to compose and produce them.

There's a myriad of reasons. The only reason that's difficult to generate is the one that says I should be writing these things down.

I used to think I needed to record stuff for posterity. Maybe some of that still exists, but it's always accompanied by this question - what's the point? My history sans my wife and children isn't particularly relevant to them, nor is it to my parents or siblings with them not in the picture. Well, maybe my mother would be interested.

But there's a span of time in there when I was on my own trying to decide what paths to take.

I dunno. Does anybody really care that Mark, Doug, Ricky and I breathed helium at King's Dominion and tried to ask people directions in our squeaky voices? Or that we boogied through Yogi's Cave?

Does anybody really care that I took Lorenda out on a date to Boston and it failed miserably because it was unplanned, I was tired from work, and it was at night when everything except restaurants, theaters and bars had closed? And that because of it, she decided I wasn't worth seeing any more?

Does anybody really care that when we ran out of grounding rods in the desert, I suggested we pull them from the spare vehicle we had brought making my team leader happy and stating that he was going to write me a letter of commendation? He never did, of course.

There have been a lot of empty promises throughout life.
But that's not my point.

I guess the difficulty for me lies with the fact that I'm having a hard time discerning what self-expression should actually be expressed. I don't have a journal - tried it once and dropped it after about five entries.

All I have is a blog, my books and a poetry review site where I hang out occasionally. Yet, nothing of what occurs to me lately is appropriate for any of those venues.

Like this piece here that I"m writing.

I miss the scorching flame of purpose that led to ten books in five years.

And they could very well be the cause of my current malaise.

I dunno.