Maybe that's what is stopping me: identity crisis.
I'm perplexed by myself. If you go back and look at all my posts (which I strongly recommend that you do) you'll see that I started with a lot of silly stuff. It's not so much that I was trying to be funny, it's that I thought in funny terms. Ideas sparked in my mind that were of the comedic element. In the last year, or so, I have seen that element fade exponentially.
First, I made a turn toward the religious. And let me tell you--if you want to hear some crickets, start talking religion. But I couldn't help myself, it was the thing that was occupying my thoughts, trampling without care all over my well being, so what else was I going to write about? And I remember thinking, "look, if this is what I feel like writing about then I don't have a choice--this is what I will be saying; if people go with me, great, if they don't, whatever."
From religion I flowed into weird-ass self reflection/obsession/navel gazing/solipsism.
And I haven't been able to pull myself out. Can't right the ship.
If this is where I find myself, that I can't stop talking about me--then I just have to keep doing it.
No, that isn't necessarily the answer, and it doesn't make for good blogging (self indulgence is only tolerated in celebrities--if you detect it in your neighbor you flee in haste; if it is on your television screen you can't turn it off), but I guess I have to keep posting about it. Because the alternative, which I have exercised frequently in the last six to eight months, is to keep it to myself. And that isn't doing me any good. So, despite my better judgement, I guess I need to inflict my myopic point of view on the six to twelve people that read these posts (who most certainly suffer from intense self-loathing) in order to keep my pen moving.
Identity crisis. I want to be funny, but I haven't felt very funny for a year or two, so what am I?
I'm someone with a keyboard who fancies himself a writer--that much I know for sure.