Java Junction – waiting on J and D

So here I am setting in the coffee house after my 2 buddies went outside for some guy talk. The curiosity is killing me. How long can they stay out there? I bet they forgot I’m in here. I just heard something that sounded like directing. I wonder what they are filming.

Typing on this computer really makes me feel weird. It comes from another part of my life, one I have tried very hard to disconnect myself from. But I sat down in front of this obsolete piece of magic junk and it is all I can do not to claw my way back there.

I had no intention of writing like this, not here, not now. But slap a keyboard in front of me and watch me whip together some boring depressing useless drivel. I can’t even write anymore.

I never let her read anything I wrote. She was always so proud of the stack of papers or the files on the computer though. I wish I had let her read some. Anything. I let the people I resent read anything they want, but she was denied it completely. I never wrote for her, not even when prompted. And now that she is gone I never will. Nothing I write will ever amount to anything more than personal entertainment because I haven’t the drive to put it somewhere. But everyone’s advise directs me to try and sell it. I don’t know if I could take the rejection.

I don’t even know what to pray for. I don’t know what I want. I can’t begin to imagine what God wants for me. I miss feeling sure of myself in anything. I know that every word that pours forth from me is a bloated waste of syllables. And yet there is a seed of truth.

I make no fiction anymore. I know I can slap together a sentence, but is it a sentence worth reading if the point of it is more of my misery and despair?

I thought that Mom’s passing made me more serious, but I can see now that it was a temporary change, if it ever happened at all. My heart is trapped somewhere else, and I don’t know where. My mind is so stagnant, or worse I fear it may be slipping backwards. I read what I write and I loathe it. I burn to care about something. But nothing I care about wants me to care. The things that should don’t. The things that did grow weary of me. I grow weary of me. I am tired of being a drain when all I want is to be a help. Guilt and pity is all that ties people to me anymore. “It’s intolerable being tolerated.”

Any maturity I was supposed to gain through this season of my life has failed to take root, and I worry for the state of my soul. Archaic words and feelings are not sufficient to meet the demands of daily life. My savings dwindle, both emotional and financial. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to do with anyone else.