I shouldn't write when I'm tired. I never like what I write when I'm tired, but then again - when am I not always tired? But there's a clear difference between 'just' being tired and feeling exhausted, which I have felt this past week. My return to work has greatly contributed to that, even though I'm trying to take things much more in stride. I already feel like my two weeks off work were like a lifetime ago, and I have to wait until close to the end of the year before I get some more time off again.
The problem with me writing when I'm tired is that I cross that line between reason and emotion, and however much I try to straddle both sides of that line, to keep me somewhat balanced - but emotion gets the better of me. I've been accused - and rightly so - of being someone who places the locus of happiness squarely on external factors, and I agree with that. No matter how broken, I still possess a terribly romantic heart - and curse my little heart! - that is fueled by hopes and dreams of what will never come to pass again. These past many years now, I've tried to change it - I've tried to change myself - and though this materialistic, collector side of me does fill the void somewhat, it brings more instant gratification than it does any true joy.
When emotion overcomes me - as it has of late - I am burdened with an immense sense of confusion. As if gossamer strands were placed inside my mind, and it makes everything slow and ponderous and tricky to process. If only for a while, I'll be stuck in a loop where I find myself questioning things long gone, and my mind will wonder endlessly about why X happened instead of Y. But then I have to remind myself that things ended for a reason, and that no matter how one might wish it otherwise - nothing will change. Sure, I'll allow my heart to let in some ghost slivers of hope, but time and distance are the killers of that. And so, given time, I deflate and return to form. The armor is built up all around me again. The defenses get shored up once more. I go back to what I do best - keeping my distance and being alone.
There's a part of me that already regrets, well, not the undertaking of this project, but to have made it known. To not have it kept quiet, or hidden, or private. It stirred far too much that it shouldn't have, it brought far too much chaos that it shouldn't have. And while I care not how things impact me directly or indirectly, I care about my actions impacting others. And one of the reasons that I withdrew from life is that I didn't want to inflict myself on others - not anymore. I need no more crosses to carry, I shoulder the ones I carry at great cost already.
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