I have a cold

But I’m feeling okay. This is hardly the first cold I’ve ever experienced.

I went to an event today. An unspecified event, consisting of a number of talks and lectures on a subject in which I am most interested. In the midst of all these people, I still felt very alone, unfortunately. Sometimes I don’t think I’m ever able to cast off this… persona, I guess, of the loner with no friends who doesn’t talk to anyone.

Which is a shame. But I loved the talks, and they gave me things to think about and to expand upon. It was tangentially related to writing, so I’m pleased I learned something useful. I don’t want to give in to my social awkwardness. I want to be able to handle a little uncomfortableness, a little anxiety, for the sake of gaining new knowledge.

Such is the way of the world, for me at least. I’m horribly socially awkward, did you know that? In person, I can hardly talk to people at all. I’m always thinking about the social context, and trying to plot the things I should say and the actions I should perform. It wears me down, having to maintain this mask. I find it much easier to throw up the mask of “generic patron┬áreading their phone” in the nearest coffee shop. It’s just less stressful, because I can do it on autopilot.

Now I’m going to go and draw more flowers, or maybe noses.



Another drawing

I’m trying to remember how to do perspective. I was never very good at architecture. It looks so amateurish… but it matters that I do it. Make art, even if it’s terrible art.

I spent an hour drawing noses last night, on the theory that doing something repeatedly will eventually result in excellence.



I’m falling into depression again. I don’t know why.

I’m still writing. I keep thinking of that speech by Neil Gaiman, where he says to just keep making art – in bad times, in good times, in any times at all. Make art.

Doesn’t matter if it’s terrible. It just matters that you do it, even when you don’t feel like you can make anything worthwhile. It makes the darker times feel less dark, when they’ve passed. Less like you’ve wasted an opportunity.

I feel better when I write. Even here, in this little blog that no one reads, I feel better for writing a few hundred words. I wonder if this is why therapists recommend keeping a journal?

This isn’t really a journal because I don’t actually talk about what I do, so there is that.

I think I’m going to sketch something.

After all, I need to make art.


In sickness

One thing that stops me from writing, more than anything else, is being sick. Lately it feels like I’ve been sick a lot.

I’m trying to improve that. I’ve been working on my health – exercise, good eating, that kind of thing – and sometimes I almost feel completely normal for a while. But it doesn’t last.

These days, I regret not taking care of myself when I was younger. Such is the way of things, I suppose.

Today, my stomach is sore. I’ve eaten something that doesn’t agree with me, and it hurts. Maybe it’s gas. Maybe it’s something else. It’s probably gas though.

I’m debating whether I should just try eating vegan for a while, to see if that helps me. I don’t know how my body will react to that. I’ve managed to stop caffeine for almost a week, and the net result is that I’m sleeping so much better it’s amazing. But going vegan? That would be difficult. Perhaps being a vegetarian would work instead. I’m afraid of the inevitable vitamin B12 issues.

More on that later.


A New Look

Because I haven’t already redone my blog a million times…

Procrastination is a horrible thing. I’ve been through ten different themes in the last few hours when I should have been writing. But I get so utterly hung up on the mechanics of finding a style or look I personally like… It all came together when I found the new header photo. It’s a painting by Impressionist artist┬áKonstantin Razumov, and I swear that I will find the money to buy one of his works someday.

Art makes my soul feel at peace.

So once more into the design breach, dear friends. I thought I needed to at least look the part if I’m going to be serious about this writing thing.


Love is not enough

“I’m thinking of leaving,” she said. I didn’t know what to say to her. I only watched, as she came close to crying, and tried to be sympathetic.

“He betrayed me. I can’t forgive, and I can’t forget. But I can’t leave yet. I don’t have any money, and I don’t even know if I want to throw away our relationship.”

My heart broke for what she had lost, and what she might still lose. “Have you talked to him?” I asked.

“We’re working on our communication. He’s trying,” she replied. “He knows what he did. I just don’t know if I’ll ever trust him again. I don’t know what will happen to us.”

She gulped, her voice suddenly lost. I knew I had to ask the question, and hope that the answer would be a good one. “Do you still love him?”

“We still love each other. We’re still committed to each other… I just don’t know how to fix this.” Her eyes wander, as if she’s fighting the words, looking for a distraction.

“Love isn’t enough,” I said. “Love is just the start. It’s the thing that’ll keep you wanting to get through the bad times together. If you can’t face that…” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s just time to let it go.”

“I still don’t have any money. I can’t leave with nothing.”

“I know.” I hugged her, awkwardly but with all the sincerity I could muster. “But you’ll get some. You’re tough. Maybe things will change between now and then.

Whatever happens, I’ll always be your friend.”