nothing to write, nothing to post, nothing to think about execpt the value of a rant...for the hell of it

Publish these thoughts in your own mind for whatever reason may be deemed necessary by anyone who does or doesn't matter. Sounds like a misdirected, convoluted statement; doesn't it? Maybe, but for me this is what my life is like. It is a series of decisions based on questions and in reality I would like to propose that that is what life is made of right? Questions, decisions, and results. Yeah, bland. This feels very bland. Like this needs some life. Like do I need to dig into the dirt and find the roots of my very being or nature? Get into the blood and guts of existence? Ugh, what the fuck is that? That sounds like some psychopathic bullshit if you ask me. But this my friend is what I'm faced with and this is what I'm thinking about today. This fine beautiful Saturday afternoon, in which it is 12:47pm and I am still enjoying the comforts of my cushy bed. I don't want to leave it. I've been lying here all morning just writing...writing for myself to figure things out. To relish the moment. Thankfully, my heart and mind are no longer filled with the painful angst that used to haunt me. I have found peace. I have found peace with myself and my life and I am so very grateful. I suppose that feeling or thought is somewhat dichotomous inasmuch that I used to rely on my frustrations for inspiration; or wait, maybe I didn't rely on them at all, there were just there and they served as the impetus to get things rolling. Whatever the case may be, I'm here now. I have gone through this sort of trial ground or right of passage that has brought me to a comfortable upward trajectory of sufficient comfort with myself and they way things are. And let me tell you, I am grateful; fucking grateful. No more panic stricken rants for me, from now on everything will be spring from the dark abyss of my unwilling subconscious...no, no, I'm just kidding. I suppose that is what scares me. Like, my writing used to drag me forward. It sort of led the way in my life in order to help me stay sane, but now I am moderately, sufficiently sane and writing is like my partner, my friend, or maybe even my servant and slave, when she used to be my master. That is weird. It is weird to have control over myself. Hum. Interesting. Anyway, so now the next big question I have facing my little life is where to focus my efforts. Non-fiction or fiction and what genre? Like I have so many subjects I'm interested in, and so many things, but at the end of the day, you have to focus on something; right? Oh wait...this is or might be an necessary question for in reality all I have to do is subjugate the world around me, so let me do some subjugation of reality...I could tell you about the people by the beach or I could be critical of those around me. But what purpose would that serve? None at all. I heard it said recently that you should judge yourself most harshly and see the best or believe in the best in others. Maybe for you that is normal, common sense. But not for me; it has taken years of hard work to not only accept others, but to accept myself. And really, when I stop and think about it, that is what has given me the ability to accept others.