I've tasted the copper of bitterness that Speakeasy described today. I'm staring at the last year of another decade of my life and thinking "Ok, so you've done all this and you aren't doing anything. Why? What happened?"
Music? Let it go out of fear. Don't have that magic ingredient, I guess, that would drive me and push me and make me make it work. The voice is still fairly good -- not that magic instrument I had 10 years ago, but then, I've let it slide. I can still harmonize on a dime, though.
Writing? I'm still mystified about it. Where did it go? The fire is banked. I burn my fuel here. Fear, again, though. Every thought looks worn through when I write it down. I can't get past the feeling it just ain't good, or ain't good enough. I want to get my master's in writing, but I don't want to travel too far for it. That's the fact. I don't want it ENOUGH to sacrifice. I'll do the work, but not the drive time.
There's no point in the bitterness. I know where the responsibility lies. I know who made all the choices, or avoided making the choices, or closed her eyes and pretended there were no choices to be made.
But I'm not miserable. Things aren't bad here in Sherri land. Oh yes, there are the bad days, the bad hours, the stuff I know is just chemicals out of whack (and the wierd science fiction feeling of knowing that. Better living through chemicals, indeed. Only now, no pills. Another day, no pills.)
It feels strangely better, though, to read your thoughts in someone else's handwriting. Thanks.