I haven’t had much to say for a bit now.
There’s a reason for that. I haven’t let myself think.
I don’t like to. I’m too smart for my own good, and left to my own devices, my mind goes round and round and round. I pick things apart. I fester over mistakes. I rot over wrongs done. I wallow over old hurts.
It takes work to refocus on good things, to find happy memories instead. It takes effort to drag my mind to joyful things instead of letting it stray to the dark corners where old angst lies.
I don’t let myself think. I fill all my time. I read, I watch. I surf the Internet. I have the radio on. I don’t have empty time or quiet spaces. I don’t meditate. I don’t reflect. I pour a constant stream of words, of images, of busyness into every waking moment, then I add white noise at night to keep thought away even then.
So I have the emotional depth of a saucer, and I’m fine with that, because I am, in fact, happier this way. And while I haven’t deconstructed Proust in the original French, I can extol the virtues of some seriously trashy novels, say what’s on NPR at 3 a.m., and fill you in on early seasons of long, long running shows.
I’ll take happy, thanks. And I’ll remain,