Questions, Answers, and Starting Again
Jan. 1st, 2023 02:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreampepperI bought a tiny, yet heavy book from the Amazon recently, Q&A a day: 365 QUESTIONS + 5 YEARS + 1,825 ANSWERS. It's a five year journal about the size of my hand, elegantly crafted. Inside the format is simple - each small page has the date and a daily question beautifully emblazoned across the top and beneath are five small sections, tastefully printed blank lines tacked to an unfinished year, (like so: 20__), so that the writer can compare each year as it comes. Originally I wanted to purchase the one wherein you write alongside a partner, but lacking a partner, and KEENLY lacking a partner, made such a thing feel like a hideous impossibility. So instead this. I had to do something and walking into traffic would unnecessarily traumatize other people.
A five year journal feels like a powerfully optimistic thing to create, much less own, but I bought it months before the new year, to help pay some of that weight, as it were, in distance. And now, here I am, beginning.
I am cheating a little, shifting the date of this journal back to January first, when truly it took me until the first of February to gather myself enough to start this account. I have already been writing in the book a month, why so long to start here? It has been a long time since I had a journal; I am long overdue. I'm not sure I have answer, except that things have hurt too much for too long. Everything hurt so much that it my spirit turned off and I lost the ability to feel. I've been mired in adhedonia for years and years and years now. Six, perhaps? Once feelings are gone, what point is there to create?
Not that much is better, I still feel dead inside, this still feels pointless, but so does taking every breath my body needs, and this, at least, will keep me busier.
I had forgotten how many clicks it took - the settings, the font choices, the colours, the placement of boxes. Where is my handy folder of user icons? Dead, lost, somewhere. My CSS cheat sheet, also forgotten. I've been at it thirty minutes and still haven't figured out how to choose my own fonts or text colours. Yet this all feels comfortingly familiar. Being able to kludge something together that feels right, rather than have to accept corporate branding as the only background. It's good, just being here. Away from the web.3 version of social media: monoliths all, rotting, tottering and dreadful. And it's my hope, too, that the act of writing, in itself, may be a balm to some of the things that ail me, even if no one reads these words.
A five year journal feels like a powerfully optimistic thing to create, much less own, but I bought it months before the new year, to help pay some of that weight, as it were, in distance. And now, here I am, beginning.
::------::
January 1: What is your mission?
To change everything about my life. Find a career, a relationship, love, friends, joy. I feel a ghost, like I might as well be dead.
To change everything about my life. Find a career, a relationship, love, friends, joy. I feel a ghost, like I might as well be dead.
::------::
I am cheating a little, shifting the date of this journal back to January first, when truly it took me until the first of February to gather myself enough to start this account. I have already been writing in the book a month, why so long to start here? It has been a long time since I had a journal; I am long overdue. I'm not sure I have answer, except that things have hurt too much for too long. Everything hurt so much that it my spirit turned off and I lost the ability to feel. I've been mired in adhedonia for years and years and years now. Six, perhaps? Once feelings are gone, what point is there to create?
Not that much is better, I still feel dead inside, this still feels pointless, but so does taking every breath my body needs, and this, at least, will keep me busier.
I had forgotten how many clicks it took - the settings, the font choices, the colours, the placement of boxes. Where is my handy folder of user icons? Dead, lost, somewhere. My CSS cheat sheet, also forgotten. I've been at it thirty minutes and still haven't figured out how to choose my own fonts or text colours. Yet this all feels comfortingly familiar. Being able to kludge something together that feels right, rather than have to accept corporate branding as the only background. It's good, just being here. Away from the web.3 version of social media: monoliths all, rotting, tottering and dreadful. And it's my hope, too, that the act of writing, in itself, may be a balm to some of the things that ail me, even if no one reads these words.
