spring and me

Ahh, spring. That magical time when I'm hot and cold, meek and bold, bright and dull, empty and full. A blue sky one hour, rain clouds the next. Fucken waves. It's these transition seasons, spring and fall, which are the quickest-moving and moodiest of all. Summer and winter are when the world tricks us into thinking, hey, something is stable! Well they are. Summer is stably pleasant, and winter is stably depressing. Spring and fall are all over the fucken place.

Mostly, "I don't know what to do with myself". I mean, I've been keeping really busy. But what about the ideas? A glimpse of a song here, a scratch of a character there...where's the idea that makes me say "fuck yeah, I have a new purpose in life!"? Or do you just stop getting those after you hit a certain age?

So to compensate, I've been going through my big box of past shit, organizing it, and gagging at some of it. Some of it is so goddamn cocky, or so goddamn dramatic, that I'm embarassed it's mine.

Sometimes I'm so in the moment, I'm so fucking here. It's so powerful that I don't know how to handle it. You know those philosophers, the ones that ask, "why am I here? What is the meaning of life?" These aren't just questions pondered quietly over a cup of tea. These are big questions, all-consuming, so intensely felt that it becomes their life, and nothing else matters.

Scatterbrained. I can't pinpoint an idea, it just drifts into the next.