Reaching out, holding back

I used to come here to write whenever, whatever I felt like. There were times when I wrote without the use of capital letters or punctuation marks (I am not fond of punctuation, I admit). Words tumbled out of my head and I captured them faithfully using my fingers.

Somewhere down the line, I stopped doing that. I don't know why. In my head, that is the role this space plays. When I am ready to burst - with happiness, sadness, euphoria, or just a confused jumble of thoughts not necessarily happy or sad, just hard to describe - I want to be able to write, here.

I have no other outlets, this I have come to realise. I pick up the phone, in fact, I spoke to my mum for a long time this weekend without saying anything. That is fine, I don't necessarily have the words even if you were willing to listen, to understand.

Sometimes, I get scared. I guess I have a long way to go. I am referring to my age more than ever these days. It has turned out to be a big joke. Maybe the looming big four-oh is responsible, I don't know. But I have a feeling of time, running out. And I worry about the child, mainly.

Yes, this is not a post about running. Or about the child. Or anything at all, if you come to think about. I am here to say that I am here. And worried, and confused, and tired, and sad. I find myself asking myself 'Is this it, is this it?'

I can feel it the moment the mood lifts. The sun seems brighter then, not in an unpleasant make my armpit sweat way, but in all is well, for now, pleasantness. I completely block my mind then to the darkness, quickly. But till then, I wait, and watch the grey and hate the hate. And try not to worry that time is flying.