Chrysalis

New Year's Eve, and I was in my local grocery. Saw the crowds, with their carts and their kids jamming up the snack food aisle and the liquor aisle, and all I could think was "fair-weather fans."

Those are my aisles.

I realized, purchasewise, that I've been treating every evening as a holiday. That's the bright way of looking at it. The dark way is in explaining that I eat junk and I drink junk 'til I fall asleep well after midnight.

But I make it into work on time, and I work hard, and take pride in my work, and they love me at work, and they frequently say so. And they pay me the money that keeps me alive, the money that I put into my body, to survive, and then a touch more money, making it worthwhile to remain in that condition. Thereby allowing me to make it into work again. And that's how I've fallen into my most recent funk.

My New Year's resolution is to pursue more creative outlets. I haven't acted, haven't written, haven't read, haven't drawn, painted, built, or made music in months and months. I haven't had the energy or motivation. But people keep giving me journals as gifts. Nice, leatherbound journals with acid-free paper. That's a clear incentive. An open-ended commission. And most importantly, it's support.

I wonder if that's why I create. Clearly I don't do it for myself, or I'd be doing it instead of talking about doing it. I don't do it for money; there's no money in it. Either I don't realize how much I need the thing itself or I'm so fucking shallow that I need an audience to watch me chase it down. Either way, thanks for listening. I mean it.

My other New Year's resolution is to clean my room. I can, I will do all these things. Starting tomorrow.