A stitch away
I don't like making excuses for not blogging enough. Afterall, it's not like blogging or communicating with the rest of you is my duty. At least it's not anymore. Since my last blog, I have five unpublished drafts tucked away. Blogs about--venting my frustration and exhaustion with the prior and present workplace (I'm not supposed to work these long hours, like pilots aren't supposed to fly on the 'redeye'); suggestions of professional photographers' personal image galleries; a discussion on the novelty of Japan's unique majority small business sector and their struggles in a receding economy; thoughts on 'How to track a life standing still?'; insights and reflections on the past 365 days and how the hell it's gotten me here.
Thing is, I don't want to complain about my job. I don't feel the intensity in pushing my personal interests onto unknown readers. I don't feel the necessity in admitting my thoughts on life's next step. I have lost touch with my closest friends these past few weeks/months. Blame it on my excessively long working hours. Blame it on my unusually inconvenient days off. It never used to be this way. I always had time or knew how to create it. I feel dictated. I'd admit that I hate it, that is, if I actually felt like I was missing something. In my happy little ring of friendship here in this sad little town, lives go on without the "missing" pieces. We are not reliant. Probably never really were. But with age it has become more, and more clear. Clear that we have our own lives to attend to, and maybe do not need others as much as we thought we did. Or maybe it's just me.
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.
Thing is, I don't want to complain about my job. I don't feel the intensity in pushing my personal interests onto unknown readers. I don't feel the necessity in admitting my thoughts on life's next step. I have lost touch with my closest friends these past few weeks/months. Blame it on my excessively long working hours. Blame it on my unusually inconvenient days off. It never used to be this way. I always had time or knew how to create it. I feel dictated. I'd admit that I hate it, that is, if I actually felt like I was missing something. In my happy little ring of friendship here in this sad little town, lives go on without the "missing" pieces. We are not reliant. Probably never really were. But with age it has become more, and more clear. Clear that we have our own lives to attend to, and maybe do not need others as much as we thought we did. Or maybe it's just me.
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da.
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