Broken hourglass

I am feeling older, and less like I have a voice. Once my words soared on the wings of giant, sun-loving birds; now those birds are extinct, driven mad by the endless chattering of my thoughts, when there was not a meaningful sentence among them. This is sounding a little disillusioned. Let’s move on.

I am frustrated by the online world that I visit regularly, because within it there are so many children. I have a guild, and that guild is torn and rent asunder by 16 year olds who feel they are on par with gods, and yet have no sense of responsibility and management and purpose. I feel like a very old person who repeats over "these days the young have no respect, or responsibility" like some twisted kind of clock that mocks the minutes as they flee. When I was a child they told me that this kind of thought was in my future. I knew everything and did not believe them. My god, what else were they right about?

Mostly I am just old, which saddens me, because yesterday I was a child, and I am hurt and insulted that old would sneak up on me and surround me and envelop me and BECOME me, without letting me know what I was in store for. It was rude, and I would have no part of it.

Don't listen to me.

I am having hard days, because I am job hunting and I hate doing so, it makes the world move slowly and everything dull and dreary and uneventful.

I am also having hard days because my writing frustrates me. I know that I can at least write, the well is questionable, but I can communicate my thought. But I put pencil to paper and nothing happens. Not for lack of hand wriggling either. The realm that I am trying to capture is not imprinted with the crystalline clarity of new age imaging. It is words on a page, and they do nothing for me.

Its the length that confounds me I think. Make it more than a few pages and it is boring to me. And then the age old question comes to me - Anyone can write a poem, but it takes talent to write a novel. I don't always believe it; look at some of the things on sale today. But I fear it, because I fear to be talent-less at doing the thing that I love.

Ah, my fragmented thought spread across the page for the entire world to see. And as always when I am see a future in which I am vulnerable, I wonder if it is a mistake.