I’ve run out of pages in my notebook

Feeling a little melancholy, a little apprehensive, a little lost.

The one beer must have triggered something. I’m smoking again.

Maybe it’s the mindless netflix, the mindless job, the weekend skype session with the woman I fear most, the emotionally brutal yet numbing restructure of the company, people coming and going, December, the helplessness felt over the 2016 events. Hope is dwindling.

Maybe it’s the knowledge of how everyone I know is treading water.  Some smoke, some drink, some go to church, some busy themselves in other people’s lives to feel purpose (their children’s). Others throw themselves into their careers and stay single.

I don’t believe you can have it all. Those that say they do are hiding the sacrifices they’ve had to make. Less time with their children (or no children), a less understanding spouse (or no spouse) who shits on fundamental parts of your being, a death of a loved one, a family that doesn’t quite understand your choices and persists in ‘fixing’ your life, the question of whether you have enough money to live a comfortable lifestyle.

I’m being too naive again. What’s with that?

And I’m one of the lucky ones.