Aching to say something original, aching to say nothing at all

I sit at my desk and sniff my (peers in to the Styrofoam mug) vegetable broth – allegedly – and feel…

Listless.

Burnt out.

They’re the best descriptions I have but I’m not sure they’re wholly accurate.

It’s as though my life has reached a point, a turning point? A jumping on/jumping off point?

The best name my heart has for it is a pivotal place.

I suppose it could be the weather.

Or the time of year.

Or a combination of both.

Or some other factor, as yet unidentified.

But it’s as though I need to spring-clean my life.

I am full of thoughts, words and deeds, yet struggle to even find the time to get many of them out.

Some thoughts remain unvoiced for reasons other than the almost crippling lack of time that seems constant in my life these days; not waking the thoughts behind them is the easier course of action, less painful in the short term.

In the long term? Who knows?

It’s as though there is a feeling of… discontent?

Yes…

There’s a feeling of discontent sitting heavily in my belly like a too-large meal I shouldn’t have eaten; making me feel uncomfortable and no new position, no amount of shuffling about in my chair can ease this unhappy restlessness, replace it with something less troublesome.

So many words, feelings, emotions, thoughts – all needing to come out, be inspected, sorted and graded, have the bad removed from the good and discarded.

And there seems to be lots of badness inside me lately.

Which is quite a scary thing, for a person with as much goodness, as many good things in his life, as many riches as I am blessed, to have so much badness inside.

And bitterness. Much bitterness.

Emotion; lots of that too.

Aye, it’s probably the weather; the relentless grey skies, the pissing down in a forty days and forty nights kind of rain, the dark mornings, the dark evenings, the cold.

Probably.

B.