Not beginning

I have been here before, but you haven't, so welcome. You will have been at your own not-beginnings, your own versions of "here we go again", so you know where I'm coming from when I say that this is so not new. But beginnings get forced upon us from time to time and a new blog needs some kind of introduction.

I am here because I'm not drawing. It's not just that, but that's as close as I can get to true. If I was drawing or making any sort of art really, I would be over on my other blog doing show and tell. But I have nothing to show and too much to tell, so I'm here instead.

I am assuming I have readers. I don't know if I merit readers, whether there will be anything worth reading here. But the fact that I'm putting this online suggests to me that I assume readers, otherwise I'd just write it in a book, like the tens of books I've filled with writing over the years, then mostly shredded because it was never designed to be read and I didn't want it to be. If there are readers that's OK, but I'm more concerned with formalising my writing a bit, being a bit more accountable to myself because someone might be looking.

So what is this not-beginning? It is the all too familiar process of picking up the pieces. It's a cyclical process and Ive been resisting it but it always gets me in the end. You just can't keep holding out on life, at some point you have to resign yourself to living it because it hasn't stopped yet. In my experience the process necessitates pretence to the point of lying and a good measure of consensual delusion. You have to believe there is a reason, a purpose, a meaning, even though there is clearly not. You have to pretend you want to be alive, pretend there are things to live for - as opposed to reasons not to die yet. You have to do something, anything. You have to talk yourself into believing that what you have in your hands after this scavenging expedition is something worth living for.

It works for a few months, then I'm back to where I was before.