The problem with being unhappy most of the time isn't actually the unhappiness. Sure, it burns you out, leads some people to commit suicide, whatever, but on some level you get used to it. Just like with drugs or alcohol, it's what to do when it's gone that's the problem.
On the one hand, there is a degree of egoism to writing here. If I'm honest with myself, I do want someone to see me the way I see some of the bloggers I read regularly. Even by writing this, I'm trying to recognize it in myself; but some small part hopes that by doing so the universe will vindicate my desire, will reward my coming clean.
Messaging is all around us. For all our constant bombardment by marketing and propaganda, we get more positive communications too: more attempts at representation, discussions of privilege, and the like. Yet we forget, I think, that a lot of other people are listening too.
Surrounded as I am by the written word, it’s difficult to suggest but that it has a great deal of power. But as with most forms of power, we tend to misconstrue it, and miss a lot of what is actually going on.
Here I am. My box was outside, now it’s not, and I’m not sure when the transition happened. It’s a strange place, what I’ve chosen to call the Library, but not an unpleasant one. I can come in from the cold, read what I want, and there’s even the means to write when the urge takes me.