The rain in Glens Falls drips softly from this old building's eaves. It's a gray and gloomy day--going to stay that way for the better part of the week, with temps under 60 degrees F...hovering between 12 and 18 C for highs for the next four or five days, with rain off and on. So much for the nice 70 and 80 F weather, ey?
Still, snow's 98 percent gone, except on the ski slopes outside the city here, and shadowed places in the surrounding mountains, where it got piled up deep in gullies, and also on the ground, in the dark corners of steep roofed buildings.
So, soon as I'm done with my kitchen chores, it's off to pick up my pay, to the bank, then the store--and if I'm really feeling ambitious (LOL), to Broad street to the Laundromat there, get as much done today as possible, so I'll have most of tomorrow to myself--or do I want that?
Lately, seems like my day is a white space--that blank page every writer dreads. It's as if, lately, I'm having living writer's block--just don't know what the hell to do, anymore. Just don't. I feel like a living automaton. I hate this! I'm going to emphasize again that I'm NOT suicidal, but gah! I wish I wasn't...well, sometimes...I wish I just wasn't here, anymore. I feel like I'm dying a slow and lingering death. I keep trying to tell myself to stop feeling this way--God only knows there's people out there--millions--worse off than me. But I can't help it. It's like standing on the tracks staring at an oncoming freight train and being unable to move.
Still, I have my writing--tho' to be quite honest, I don't even feel much like doing that, any longer. The life is going out of me, leaking like a sieve, and I can't seem to patch the holes inside me, no matter how hard I try.
I haven't read much lately, either--which for a book-a-holic like me, is seriously saying something is wrong. Even if I could afford to pay off those fines, I couldn't get to the library right now, anyway.
Even my appetite is way off, especially since the accident. I think the accident hurt me as much, emotionally, as physically. I mean I have full realization as to my situation, as far as being alone. But the accident made me realize just how vulnerable I truly am. For two or three days, I barely ate, could hardly get to the loo--and if I'd broken my leg--what then? How would I have managed, then? I wouldn't have been able to even get up my own stairs, unassisted. Sure, the terrible pain took its toll, but the realization of my own helplessness--that scared the hell out of me.
But, I carry on. Another month or two, and I'll (mostly) be my old self again--at least physically--I hope.
I'm thinking tho' lately, about my failed attempt at an education. I tried to register for a cheap (under $20) class--but it was filled. I miss college a lot. I really miss the interaction, the discussion, the learning and growing. I even miss the writing assignments! Sure, I would have loved writing for a living. Heck, I would have even liked being a librarian or a PR person or something like that--but realistically, not going to happen. Ever. I'm a chav. Not only that, but I'm a mentally ill chav. And, I'm alone--no knights in shining armor live in Glens Falls, no magic genies, and no one here has ever won the big lotto drawing.
I'm not only never going to be a writer, I'll probably never get a better job than I've got, right now. Tho', things can change in a heartbeat, as well I know, and I'm not being self-defeating, so much as bluntly realistic. Only I can change my life--and for once, I don't have the guts to try anymore. I hope that changes, I truly do. Right now, I'm just trying to survive from one day to another. That's all. No more.
My dreams are long dead. Never thought that'd happen. I live knowing I tried. And, I had some wonderful times, in between the horrors that live has placed in my path. And, I can still write--even if it is in this daft old blog. But my dreams of being a playwright or a wrter--nah. It was a pipe dream, something "normal" people do. No one will ever hear my plays, nor will I ever be published--at least not by real publisher.
Still, I don't think any Doctor Who publishers are going to be knocking down my door, but I do enjoy writing the DW stories--even if I do get seriously stuck, sometimes, and don't always have the drive to finish one (I've two or three left undone). But, I've four whole readers and a "fan,"--what more could I ask for? 
