words get broken

Our blogs have run their course. There are those that are zealous, such as the person who writes the blog linked on the right, and then the person who i recently discovered...both have allowed their blogs to stand paused, one entry forever dated in early September. i am worse than they. i wish i had the energy and uniqueness to blog as frequently as they did, but when i sit to write it appears that my life is lackluster. It is, most likely, not, it is just that i do not have the creative view to make the mundane day to day happenings come to life. Instead, i whine about a marriage that died years ago, and try to appreciate the marriage that has presented itself to me. All of it maudlin, so i pepper it with entries that are painfully self aware. Once, i had wanted to be a writer, after a short story i wrote in eight grade was covered by the local newspaper. It was followed by journaling and poetry born out of teenage longing: craving girls who wanted nothing to do with me, or so it seemed. It is the journal entries that have given me the best advice, albeit retroactively; as i review past entries, there is insight between the lines that was not so obvious when the words first took to the page like ornaments placed on a tree. i keep writing to learn about myself, but the blog is limited. In my journals, i paste pieces of paper that funnel into my life: concert tickets, small notes, holiday cards from The Land & The Sea, anything that i wish. The blog does not offer me as much freedom. It insists that the words decorate, sparkle, bleed, and i am sure my words cannot live up to that.