The Secret Thoughts of an Introvert

Pleasure or lack thereof

December 12, 2022 2:59pm

Well, This is funny. Only because I currently have about 7 written by hand journals that I am actively working on. And here I am starting yet another one. But I am accepting this behavior from me and choosing not to criticize it because 1) My hand gets tired of writing, as I use my hands alot for work, 2) It will hypothetically increase my typing speed and make me a more efficient typer, and 3) it will help me redevelop the habit of typing out stories again. I do miss writing so so much. Writing for pleasure that is. Which brings me somewhat to the topic at hand. 

My life has been devoid of pleasure. For years. There was a time that I was actively pursuing pleasure with someone who only had the intention of draining every ounce of energy, joy, and passion from me. A true energy vampire. Sucking my youth vitality and beauty out of me at the most pivotal of times. With enough people screaming in my ear to flee, eventually, after about 7 years of stupidity, I did. And within months bits and pieces of me continued to restore itself. My insomnia gradually left me, after a 5 year long obsession with my existence. Its exit made room for Self Esteem to return. She was frail, raggedy, and half alive, but given room to recover. She's much healthier now, but could definitely still use a little meat on her bones. And so on and so forth, one by one, the bits of me I had abandoned by the many waysides I had traveled, found their way home to me.

But making it home is only one part of the journey. Especially when home is in the disarray it was when you left it. I guess that's why so many insist on fully cleaning their homes before leaving on vacation, so they can come home to peace. Well, I hadn't done that before I abandoned myself. My self and soul lacked every ounce of peace I could fathom. Every inch of me had been upended and overturned. And as each piece of me returned, it came home to the chaos it left, with its own new gained chaos in its bags. That isn't to say that those pieces of me didn't come back with treasures. Pearls (of wisdom) decorated the innards of every bag, scattered amongst the items that my I's just could bear to leave behind. After all, those "things" had carried them through. Those "items" were weapons and tools that enabled them to return to me. Beaten, bloodied, bruised, but returned just the same.

Hell, even the way I have written almost every sentence before this very one, is a tool that was brought back. Or maybe it was one that never left, but never flourished due to self neglect? Or maybe its a coping mechanism to speak of the unnamed in a suggestive or metaphorical manner, to keep myself divorced from them, as while they are mine and me, they are still being regarded as foreigners.

Or maybe I am simply a literary genius with a favorite writing style, who is a bit too hard on herself. 

I wish I could write in a more direct and sensical way, but that would require a brain that processes, thinks, and communicates in a direct and sensical way, which mine only does in the abstract. By the time a concept leaves my mind palace to enter my vocals in order to join the outside world of thought, it has been run over by several other thoughts, painted, mashed, stripped, sculpted, and distastefully yet artfully reformed into...what you see here. A long drawn out tripping tongued, question hiding another question that ironically never gets asked. Ah well. 

 I assume these are some of the musings that have brought me to this laptop, to type these thoughts out faster as my aching hands continuously fail to keep pace with the racing thought critiques and ponderings of my everfull mind. I guess I have missed writing, as I have spent the last 3003 characters running on and on about seemingly, nothing. And it felt good.

Regardless, I have wandered FAR off track to what was the 2nd initial purpose of this, that was stated early on in these musings before my mind took a deep dive.