No reaction.

It's been quiet lately. It's been slow, things have felt off-kilter. Perhaps the weather is partially to blame. New York's been stuck in an odd post-fall/pre-winter sort of mood. The leaves have fallen, but it hardly ever hits below freezing. Not that I haven't been productive, I've been doing things. But more than usual, I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen.  Like we're moving in slow-motion and I'm watching life pass by very slowly.

Starkly aware of how unaware I was until five minutes ago. Kinda feeling like a dick, feeling like I insulted a good friend and it took a few days before I realized that the confrontational discourse already took place. Well, of course that half of the mind would come to such an out there conclusion. The other half's trying to reassure, telling me that I'm being overwrought with excuses as to why there is no reaction yet. The explanation is always the simplest answer, right? They didn't get the e-mail, or haven't had the time. Reasonable explanations. Or it could be the ten other reactions that come to mind, that are being withheld either for lack of caring or caring too much. Or I have offended.

Much can be heard from listening to silence. Tangents are there to explore, to learn from. In silence, a deafening howl which much be endured in order to truly hear what is being said. Or I'm over-thinking this. What am I trying to say here? Thinking too highly of myself, presuming I can gather inspiration, perspective, enlightenment? By simply willing it into being using only my mind? Rather presumptuous, no? Of course, but that's what I do.

I had another realization a little while back.  I have lot of them, but this one seemed insightful enough to take note of. To waste brain cells typing about right now? I guess. Anyway, I think I finally realized that writing keeps me sane. Absolutely not to say that my writing's any good, mind you. Just that writing keeps me from absolutely losing it. The act of taking a pen to paper and concentrating so singularly on the ink being transferred to the surface of the plup, the mind focusing on constructing words and sentences in order to create any sort of narrative, be it fictional or autobiographical.

The day I realized that was a pretty shitty day. The lowest of points? Perhaps. Rescued by vomiting the rage and depression out onto a notebook. The simplest of acts on the surface, but one that makes us human more than any other. Despite not being very good at it, it probably defines me, in my own head at least. Maybe I've already said too much?

I never know what others think when I show them whatever I think is worth showing. Always afraid of what they see when peering into whatever small sliver of whatever I had running in there that happened to make it onto paper. That I'm wasting their time, or inadvertently insulting them with an unfiltered view through my eyes. I'm probably over-thinking this. But that's what I do. I worry and I write, even if it's not very good.