It’s been ten days since I last wrote something, which is about fifty days in blog time. So forgive me if this post goes all over the place. I don’t know what the next sentence is going to be until I write it. To be honest with you, I’ve been fidgeting with the wire of my earbuds for the last minute and forty-three seconds because it keeps getting in the way of my right arm, wrist, and hand. Scratch that, I meant left arm, wrist, and hand.
We’re off the rails, already.
Hi, I’m Paul. This post is going to change direction more times than you can say, “Brussels sprout, Brussels pout” in one minute. Be ready.
I needed a break from all of this. Honestly, I might still need a break, but tonight is the first time in ten days where I actually felt the urge to write something.
There are five comments in my notifications that are awaiting my approval and response. They’ve been sitting there for about a week. I’ve read them. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to reply.
I’ve barely read or liked any blog posts in the last ten days. If you got a notification from me, congratulations. It’s the equivalent to winning a golden ticket. Quick, to the chocolate factory!
I was tired of blogging. I was tired of reading posts from the same people. I was tired of being tired.
I haven’t made it a secret that I write my blog posts in the middle of the night. For some reason, that’s when the magic happens. But doing so means I go to sleep later and wake up more tired than I was when I went to sleep.
So ten days ago I made a change. I started going to sleep earlier. There was one night I went to sleep at 11pm. I haven’t been to sleep that early since high school. And it felt good. So good.
I’m not a “day writer”. I can’t muster up the heart and passion during the day for a blog post that I’ll be proud of. So that’s part of the reason I haven’t been here.
Not the only reason.
Here’s a secret. (And a change in direction, for those of you still saying “Brussels sprout, Brussels pout”).
Last year I realized the things that used to bring me joy, were getting lost in my life. Things I used to do a few years ago, or as a kid, that I don’t anymore.
So since then, I’ve been trying to go back to how my life was before it got carried away by things that aren’t important.
It’s the small things I miss. The things that don’t require a computer, phone, Wi-Fi, or any other technological nonsense.
When I was a kid, I would finish reading books in two or three days. I’d read them on the couch, in the car, on the toilet, in bed, or my favourite spot – behind my rocking chair, in the corner. It was like my own little fort. Just me and a book and not a peep.
Those were the days where there was no one to text and no one to stalk on social media. There was no one to distract me or compare myself to. Just me and a book and all the time in the world.
The rocking chair is still here. The corner is still here. But I lost it along the way.
There are days when I wake up in the morning and don’t even want to turn my phone on. But I do. Every day. Otherwise, people will worry when they don’t get a reply.
That is what the world has become.
I mean, it’s nice that I have friends and bloggers that want to talk to me on a daily basis – and I do enjoy it – but I think back to just ten years ago and how I wasn’t picking up a phone every few minutes. Do I want to be so dependent on it, or is the world forcing me to be?
It was so much simpler back then. I wasn’t scrolling through pictures, hateful tweets, or Facebook statuses with spelling errors. I wasn’t texting, or timing my responses. I was just living.
I’ve always been someone who is neither here nor there, but always somewhere. Does that even make sense? I feel like a contradiction wrapped in decisiveness – with icing sugar on top because who doesn’t like icing sugar?
Someone who can see both sides to an argument, to the point where I don’t know what my opinion actually is. Yet at the same time, you can ask me if I want tacos and you’ll get an immediate “No”.
BRING ON THE HATE COMMENTS.
For instance, I think I’m a person who hates change, but I also hate when things get stale. Therefore, I like change. But I hate it. See what I mean? A contradiction wrapped in decisiveness.
If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you’ll notice how it went from a sports blog, to a blog about anything else. Poetry. Fiction. Rants. Letters. Chef Paulo.
I constantly reinvented this blog, so I didn’t get bored. That’s why I bounce around from genre to genre. I can’t stay in one lane. I can’t travel the same road. It gets boring.
Brussels sprout, Brussels pout. (This phrase is basically my divider. Like that stick you put on the conveyor belt at the checkout of a grocery store).
The bookshelf in my room has looked exactly the same since the early 2000s, with a few additions here and there. There are about 200 sports related magazines dating back to 1999.
I’m not a hoarder, you just think I am.
I’m not in denial, either, you just think I am.
Within the last ten days, I got tired of staring at it. I got tired of staring at magazines that represented the past. Everything about the bookshelf represented the past.
From the participation trophies that I hold near and dear to my heart, to the championship trophies that don’t nearly mean as much.
That last line was a joke for you millennials.
I didn’t throw out the magazines, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Again, not a hoarder.
I put them away. Out of sight. In their place, I put a bunch of sports books that I’ve read over the last three years. It’s fresh. It’s new. It’s change. It’s updated. It’s nice. It’s different. I like different.
Are you lost yet? Because I am. I have no clue what I’m saying at this point. Brussels sprout, Brussels pout.
I tell myself that this blog is something I’ll have for the rest of my life. But my fear is that one day I’ll wake up and never feel like blogging ever again. That I’ll close up shop, say goodbye to all of you, and forget this existed.
I’ll be honest, I felt that way at least a couple times within the last ten days. Where I said to myself, “If I don’t blog again, I think I’ll be okay.”
But then I remembered that I still have about eleven letters left to write (remember those?), and felt guilty. Because I like to please people. I like to make others happy, even if it’s never returned.
I guess that’s what this is about – happiness. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know.
It feels like I’m fighting with myself sometimes. Send the text; don’t send the text. Read the book; go to sleep. Write a blog post; do anything else. Turn off the phone; put it on vibrate. Eat healthier; pizza.
It’s like my mind is fighting with uncertainty because it wants to accept both options.
The first half of my life was spent living one way, and the second half of my life has been spent living a completely different way. Ideally, I want a mix of both, but I don’t know how to accomplish that when the past keeps getting pushed further away.
This blog post is awful(ly excellent?).
At this point, I’m trying to think of something else to say that might salvage this post.
The other night I had a dream where I saw someone for the first time in years and all I did was cry, tell them I love them, and hug them. And then they gave me a dessert. They were a friend, but not really, yet I’d call them a friend. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess they were more of a reminder of a place.
And then I woke up and just felt so sad that they weren’t in my life anymore.
Did that salvage this? Probably not.
So here is an abrupt end to a strange post.
Brussels sprout, Brussels pout.
Upon editing, I think this post is actually about food.