Quaretine-while

Like everyone else, I have been stuck inside, stuck with my thoughts.

And it has given me a lot of time to think about how I define success and how to achieve that success.

And I don't know.  I mean, I've achieved a lot of the things I thought would make me happy, but I still feel like the same person. It's probably along the lines of, "Wherever you go, there you are."

There's this idea of needing to make the best of any situation and learn and grow and whatever.

But, what happens when you don't know the direction where you want to grow?  I have no idea. I thought that this whole extensional dread thing would be over by now.

I'm still the same anxious person that I was, but not in the same shitty situation? And yes, that is amazing and I'm glad to be on the other side of the shore, but what now?  What would living a good life look like?

I'd like to be able to work out with more regularity. I'd like to write more. I'd like to cook more. I'd like to have the patience to work through the humdrum monotony of working towards a life I'd like to live. I know I need to put the work in, but putting the work in seems so much like. . .work?  Haha.

It's fucking hot in Los Angeles right now.

I've made good friends. I have good friends, but sometimes I can't stand them.  Is that normal?  What the fuck. I have these half attempts at relationships, but I never know what to do about them. Intimacy is this thing that is behind a screen. Like, I see it and I know I should want it, but eh. And even while embracing my identity as aromantic, it still feels like there's something I'm missing out on, like I'm having FOMO on a feeling.

But other than being stuck with my thoughts, I have been gardening and drinking quite a bit. So, there's that, I guess.

April 1st

I had a writing challenge lined up, but I had a long day, so we're gonna write about real life.

It's 10pm when I get the text, "We're getting ready."  Oh shit.
"Do I come now?"  15 seconds.
"I'm coming down."
"No, wait.  We're gonna wait till morning."

I haven't been sleeping so anytime was fine.  I take too many sleeping pills and wait.

It's 5am when he texts me, "We're going."
"I have a job, I won't be there till after 11."
"Can't you come sooner?"
"I'll come sooner."
"No, it's okay.  Come after 11."

When I finally get on the road the horizon is a sun bleached bone and there are more that two hundred miles to go.  

Annnnnd scene!

I also had a corona virus scare, I think I'm okay?  Eh.  I wanted to include that, as well as entering an empty house, but eh.

I also wanted to write about getting waaaay to close to some of the rigs, but I like this kinda stark scene better, and I feel like describing too much would take away from that.

PSA

I'm gonna do a writing challenge!

I've got 28 writing prompts and stale tortilla chips.

Let's do labels: YT tries to get her grove back, quarantine thoughts and writing challenge.

Let's try to do a writing challenge per day, with forgiveness on Thursdays.

Is this how you do this?  Eh, fuck it.

No heroes, no villains, only survivors.

Baby, I promise I didn't come crawling back to you because all the things I usually would have filled my time with have been taken away from me.  Baby, I promise this time I'll stay. Baby, you believe me, right?

I'm trying to ignore that my last post is still the thing I am struggling through aka "What does it mean to live creatively?"  Maybe I don't write anymore because it forces me to confront how little I've actually accomplished and/or how little I have to say?  Naaaaah.  That can't be it. Maybe if I focus my writing?  On what though?  Does it matter?  Is writing even part of my version of "living creatively?"

What story do I have to tell?  What experiences can I share?  What's relatable?  Is trying to work through my decade long writer's block just another distraction from dealing with what is front of me? Is trying to organize and make my creativity productive actually stifling it?  Maybe.  Maybe the goal is just getting through this.

Yeah, yeah. I get it. Bad things are happening.  Bad things are happening, and I care a lot about those bad things.  But, being oversaturated with grief, feels a lot like not caring at all.

I stopped to stare at my phone for like five minutes just now and just scrolled through more of the same: Covid19, Covid19, Covid19, funny animal video.  Whenever things get too heavy, I fidget with my phone.

It feels surreal to know that huge swathes of humanity are being extinguished, and we still have all the funny dog videos at our disposal. It's surreal to drive on the freeway and see marquees telling me to wash my hands and stay away from people, alongside Disneyland ads.  Is this how the world ends?  Just feeling out of place and dissatisfied?

I checked my phone again and watched an ad about a blanket.  It was better than sitting with those feelings, I guess.

This morning, I did half a yoga class before my connection was so spotty that I gave up.  An hour later, I joined up with another yoga group--not fitness yoga, but spiritual yoga--and chanted and meditated as a group.  Instead of feeling connected to either experience, I felt like a fraud, a spiritual tourist.  Sometimes saffron is just orangey-red.  Sometimes the machine has to chose who to save, before the wave hits.  Sometimes you  need to make it procedural and matter of fact, so that when the choice is in front of you, the part of you that is part of the machine, makes THAT choice.

Oh wow, that's still bothering me. So it goes and goes and goes.

I check emails, I check emails, I check emails.  I watch hundreds of Youtube videos. I add a inspirational quote to my bullet journal.  I work on my handstands.  I imagine how it would look like if I snapped my wrists.  I move through some asanas. I vow to be better.  I vow to be better.  Maybe I'll get tired on my own bullshit. My hands are flakey from all the alcohol spray.

Hey, I'm sorry.  I'll try to be better. Hey, I'm already feeling better.