a short march (following a long february)

February seems a long blur now. I didn't think it would end at the time. At the time there was only the endless list of stuff. Some of it was brilliant stuff. The stuff included skiing, drinking and tasting a lot of wine. There was a wedding: old friends by the dozen. There was also tequila & raw eggs. I'm sure other stuff happened too. I certainly managed an entry into my top 5 ever hangover list. I also took a lot of photos (most of which, at the time of writing, are unedited). I nearly threw up on a ski slope (that would be the top 5 ever hangover listing). I ate too much take-away food and didn't cook a single meal for myself. I enjoyed a rather spectacular Michelin star lunch and someone else picked up the bill. I missed a chance with a rather tasty Australian bridesmaid (well, I think I did anyway). I didn't run as much as I should have. I interviewed for a job. I drank fine wine and not-so-fine wine. I questioned my place in the universe with annoying regularity. Despite my oft-written preference for questions over answers, the lack of the latter has started to confound me. It's not really the whole universe I'm questioning my place in, but rather my place in my own personal universe. I'm a big believer in Dickens, and I feel I should be finding myself to be the hero of my own life. I think everyone should. I've written about it before but I've not the inclination to find it and link to it.

I'm not the hero of my own life at the moment; not after a long February with no days off. Not after chasing, half-heartedly, jobs that I don't really want. Not after hiding once again in the comfort of the safe, the familiar and the underpaid. Not after finding no answers to my questions.

When I first started taking this blog seriously (well, as seriously as I've ever taken it), I used it for optimistic assessments. To make promises that were grandiose, stoic and dogmatic, promises that I would find my discipline and chase my dreams, regardless. Whatever story I told, even if it was of failure, finished with some sort of hope for the future. Often I took small observations of the world around me and twisted them into some mantra of personal determination. This blog's tagline is still aspiring. It's a tagline I like. But I don't feel it. I'm not so much aspiring as waiting.

I keep thinking I've forgotten something, some sort of spark or inspiration. I must have. I must have written the book somehow. It didn't get written by waiting. It didn't write itself. Whatever's missing was there at one point, and in spite of the disheartened nature of this post, I don't think it's gone far. I just don't know where to look. And too often I don't bother trying.

I should probably work on that.

This is a fairly self-aware post. As far as I go, it's pretty much an over-share. Apologies.