So, I skipped a day. So, what? I don’t owe it to anybody to do this. I do it for myself. And if myself feels inhibited or put upon, myself will tell the Morning Pages to take a flying fuck. That’s where I’m at, so deal with it.
I had a nice day yesterday with Denise. We went to Collins Lake and then to the Yuba River. We logged about 4.9 miles, although her pedometer gives her credit for 6 miles. At this rate, I will have to walk an extra 1/6 of a mile just to keep up. Unfair!
I don’t know what you (vague amorphous judgmental cosmic lump) wish for me to report in about. Clearly, I’ve exhausted my reservoir of interesting party topics.
I am blocked because I refuse to deal with some of the issues that are foremost on my mind. Sure, this exercise is supposed to liberate me from them because I can get them out here in a consequence free, judgment free environment. Kind of like a confessional: just spew it and be rid of it.
Not so easy, that. I am honest with myself on the inside. I let myself think the truest things, the vilest most abhorrent, and yet accurate in detail things. To mine own self, I am true. But to these Morning Pages, I am still guarded.
Who am I fooling? Some people like to call those thoughts “automatic” thoughts, as if they had no culpability at all in their formation. Like they were just walking along and ZAP, out of the blue, Zeus sends a lightning bolt down, and a thought hits them square in the cerebral cortex. Or the little devil on their shoulder says, “Psst. You wanna hear something funny?”
No, I prefer to own it. Although, I may have subscribed to a thought, I’d like to think that I could unsubscribe. Somewhere, there is a button with a link to let me do that. “Please remove me from your list of people to bug with these horrendous thoughts. Thank you.”
I don’t necessarily even think the thoughts are “bad,” as in evil, Nazi baby-killer bad. They are just some run of the mill socially unacceptable thoughts. They might need to be rehabilitated and given a fresh coat of paint. Perhaps, I can dress them up in little tuxedoes and take them out on the town, put some dark shades on them and get them past the cameras quickly, because the façade won’t stand up to scrutiny.
What are my dark, ugly thoughts about? Can I at least begin the process of unearthing them? No, I think not. I have the shovel in my hand, but I’m using it to bury these thoughts, not start an archeological dig in my cranium. Let the leaking septic tank stay buried. If it collapses in on itself, I guess that will be the time to deal with it.
Now that I’ve gone on for nearly a page and still said nothing, I guess I’ll address the issue that is most pressing on me at this very moment. I’m hungry. I am tired of writing. I’m a shallow well of quicksand, and I don’t want to be stuck here all day skimming moisture off the top, then boiling it and sanitizing it for consumption.
Maybe sometime soon, I will feel the need to unburden myself of some of these never to see the light of day thoughts. But for now, in the deep recesses of my gray matter storage facility they will remain archived. Goodbye for now, my untrustworthy friend.
---end of entry for January 13, 2022
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.