The more I know, the more I realize I don't know...

"I know myself, but that is all..." (This Side Of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald)

Exactly how I feel about life, moreso as I age.


I devoured this wonderful work in less than two days. I was facinated and inspired ...

Amory Blaine, a character I find in myself - though Amory is a male. Interesting.

POP!!!

I popped my own bubble.

That damned hangnail turned out to be helpful indeed...

My Phoenix wings have taken flight for what must be their umpteenth go at it.

I'm good. I'm fine.

Where am I?

I'm floating in a bubble. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, touch is all muted somehow. My pain and anger and boredom has mutated.

I'm numb. Comfortably numb.

I am reminded of a movie I've seen a zillion times with my kids (and without), "Neverending Story." Bastian was up against the Terrible Nothingness that was coming...

I could carry on this way indefinitely...

Won't someone please pop my bubble?

Is this my mid-life crisis?

Or is this something more?

I feel myself spiraling down, down, down into a depression. Maybe I'm not spiraling down anymore, but I'm spiraling 'round and 'round my life-drain like the vortex that forms when water drains out of a bathtub. The good me-ness is draining, and what's left is the angry, suppressed, bored me-ness. This is the me-ness I hide from others.

I'm still running, but it's only due to inertia. Instead of running because of a conscious choice, it's more that I can't NOT run. It's what I do and what I am. I run when I don't feel like it, which is all of the time lately. I must force myself to grab my workout bag and trudge down the stairs to our basement gym (at work) on my lunch break. I force myself to change into my running clothes. I force myself to step onto the dreaded treadmill. And then I force myself to run for 3-4 miles. By mile 2 I am only thinking about being done with it.

And why? Because I'd rather be dead than be fat. And that's the goddamned truth. I never did really like running. Never have, and probably never will.

So what else?

I still hate my job, but honestly I need it. Without it I couldn't continue sending my kids to their wonderfulbutridiculouslyexpensive school.

I love, love, love photography and have actually blossomed into "professional" status this year. That should make me happy, and it does. It really does. But I need and want more. 3 gigs won't cut it. I need constant photography work. I have to make as much with photography as I make doing what I do now in order to leave this.

Is there more? There is always more.

Maybe all of this is just a mid-life crisis as I near my 40th birthday. I thought I was experiencing that last year, but maybe not. Maybe THIS is my mid-life crisis. Or maybe I'm clinically depressed. No, I wouldn't consider suicide, but I do consider running away...I don't want to die - I want to LIVE..........