Still With Me?

I have been pondering whether to write this morning or not. I'm sort of void of thought today. And i was about to get up and go about my morning but i couldn't. I'm tied to this blog every day, except the weekends. It works so well for me to write in the mornings (see "Writing in the Dark") bu ton the weekends i wake up to late and already the boys are demanding my attention and soccer games are going on--i follow them on soccernets gamecast--and plans are taking place for the day/weekend and sometimes it seems that waking up on the weekends is waking up in perpetual motion. My oldest son does not slow down, ever. Constantly on the go, he wakes up as a fireman/dinosaur/jr. paleontologist/power ranger high bred character doing good and making phenomenal scientific discoveries wrapped in sage and wizened experience of his five years. He is wonderful...he takes a lot of energy. He is energy, the perfect embodiment of energy. The youngest, well, he's eight months, almost nine, and he needs my wife and i all the time--obviously.

So, if I'm going to write this is the time. And i have to seize these mornings and write. It is reminiscent of being in a strict exercise routine and then missing a day and the feeling of failure and guilt haunts you all day until either amends are made and routine is rectified or the exercise is slowly let go of all together and this action is then justified as it not being for you, at that time, and something else takes its place.

It has struck me, before, that writing has a part to play in my life--whether pre-determined or self prescribed, whether good, fair, or poor--and to miss a day after establishing routine and a semblance of discipline wood be a day wracked with guilt and frustration. As a person who routinely struggles with self-esteem, confidence, image, and worth minor blips as this are really challenging for me and it has the potential to wrack my day in frustration anger (something else i struggle with but that is for another day).

So, here i am. Blathering on about writing and not and all the time wondering at the value and point of what I'm doing. Point, even though I've expressed it before. There is a point to this blog and slowly I'm drawing myself into it. Already I've written more about my inner struggles and personal demons than i had intended, i hadn't realized that the craft of writing, for me, was so closely tied to the darker side of me, nor had i intended to lay bare that part of who i am for a, largely, unknown readership. But, you know, what the hell. Its always easier to lay it on the line--all the shit going on in your life--to a stranger in a bar than to your best friend. Its always easier, too, for me to write than it is to talk.

So, if your still with me, thanks for reading.