I have been touched by a bit of melancholy as of late and I am not entirely certain why. Maybe it is my declining health. Maybe it isn't. I have so many projects to do and so many are left undone. There are a few of them that I am quite excited about yet I don't do them. I hate that about myself. I am the ultimate hedonistic procrastinator when it comes to what I will or will not do. I admit it. It isn't a good way to be, but there it is. I don't mind some pain--hell I use to thrive on it! But I tend to avoid anything strenuous these days.
I wasted so much time in my life. I still waste it. Rotten fruit, that's what I am. Gorgeous on the vine, even wonderful when cupped in the palm, but time is wicked and it has turned me sour, green, and black with a bit of fuzz, and there's a pungent odor that I just can't quite shake. It is OLD AGE. I am 33 years old and I feel as if I have lived way too long.
I am glad that I am able to see some fantastic and horrific history within my lifetime. I have something to talk about in the nursing home when rarely anyone will visit me. I know the certainties in life. You have a lot of money and can pay people to love you. You have a lot of charisma and can talk people into loving you. Or you can be the best person that you can be and hope they will love you.
Why are we so opposed to visiting the elderly? What is so wrong with hanging out with someone who is a "senior citizen"? I see nothing wrong. I suppose it is a reminder that we will all go that way someday, if we don't die tragically young. I don't go out of my way to hang out with anyone but the elderly holds much interest for me. They have things to share about their lives, the lives of their family, the lives of strangers, and of course, much to share about history. There are far too few of us in the world. The few who want to stop and spend time talking to the elderly--OUTSIDE of work. Anyone can be a CNA--but can you be a friend?
I have always had a difficult time making friends. I hated most everyone. I didn't always show this or express this and in fact a lot of times I acted more desperate than I did intelligent or resolute. I have learned, in my mature age, that I am perfectly acceptable as a person. I stop to help stranded motorists. I care about the elderly and I volunteer. I do my best to be a good partner and mother. So I'm not the type that everyone is drawn to. Big deal. I can hang on my own. I'm fine with that. It would be nice, however, to have someone who didn't mind doing housework as a friend. That would rule.
So this melancholy, maybe it is related to a developing way of thinking within myself. I am an anxiety riddled dork who is discovering that she has something to offer. But I am totally wasted in energy, time, and support. I burn all of this. I burn it, I do. Those occasional moments when I start to draw, and write, and paint, and create--oh those are fantastic times for me. But those dry, boring stretches of anti-creativity/anti-imagination wastelands really get me down.
And here I am. Down. Yet, I am creating things. I am writing currently. I am creating some art, currently. I am even reading again--something I haven't been doing for a shamefully long time. So why do I have this maligned feeling? I'm probably just getting testy as I age. Or it may just be all in my head.
On a jarring change of topic, Patrick Swayze passed. I had a crush on him when I was younger, I admit it. I loved watching him and I always though he exuded not so much sexuality, as he did confidence and honesty. Integrity, perhaps? Not sure. I just know that he seemed "real", rather than celebrity fantasy.
You will be missed Patrick. And you will eternally be a gorgeous star in the universe; forever dancing, forever smirking, forever shining. My positive love and sympathies go out to his family and his wife. Rest in peace, Mr. Swayze.
On that note, I need to go replenish my coffee supply. I should probably also shower. You know, to get that rotten citrus smell off me. Or something.
Wear a smile.