Or the lack of it at least. It's not like I don't think interesting things (well, to me at least, and thank god I find them interesting [sometimes!] coz I'm trapped in this head all alone). Just when it comes to recalling and writing about them the words won't come.
I used to keep a diary (the appallingly old-fashioned papery kind) for many years. I was a prolific writer for perhaps 8 - 10 years. The same period of my life was when I was writing the most for my own enjoyment, short stories of variable worth (ranging from recyclable material to compost to be honest...), observations on life, god-awful poetry, etc. Never had the discipline or ego to attempt a novel but.
That time also coincided with my greatest volume of drug-taking and possibly the only period when I was reasonably comfortable with socialising, going out on the town, dancing, all that youth shit. Or perhaps I wasn't all that comfortable, but I did it anyway. Never look back with rose-tinted glasses, I always promised myself I'd never idolise my school years as 'the best time of my life'. They sure-as-fuck weren't.
Nowadays I feel more at ease with who I am, and more accepting of my own personality. Tonight for instance I was considering going over the road to the buskers festival but couldn't be arsed mainly. But Annie came home & her youthful enthusiasm is infectious (for a while) so I scraped myself out of the house to join her & the downstairs boys (not to be confused with the backstairs boys, nonono). But it was obvious within seconds of getting there that I couldn't handle the crowds, so I bailed. And so I'm here, in my room with my cat, writing shit.
Gotta say, it feels good.
Well, this was supposed to be a rant about how I couldn't remember the cool observations I made walking home from the mechanics' this morning but I'll save that for another time. Perhaps.