Stifled Notes

Well, here I am, sitting in a hallway because we don't have internet anymore and we're borrowing from a neighbor who's too far to reach from our apartment.
Sigh, don't get me started.

Starmada: today, I had the idea to create adventure cards, cards by which the players determine how the game ends and who wins. After a certain point, someone shuffles all the cards and draws one.
Megan thought it might make strategy nearly impossible, and she recommended reconsidering the idea of having a choose-your-own-adventure like in Careers. You've probably never played that, and I don't feel like explaining it.

So, being out of internet was cute for a few days, but, now, it's kinda lame. Oh my goodness, don't get me started on that.

I was remarking to Megan that I'm surprised at how much I accomplish despite how little I accomplish. She responded, "You try so little, and you try so hard."

We went to the beach today! We also went to a swimming hole of sorts. It was mostly just a river under a bridge. After that, we got some pizza! It was a very nice day.

This was so cute: I was just chatting with Megan, and I was apologizing for being so intense. I then asked her if she had seen any progress in my ability to chill out. At first, she hesitated. Then, she said, "yes, a little." I admitted that I'm a late, late bloomer. She told me I was Mulan and that I'm going to defeat the Huns. It warmed my heart because she believes in me. I have a lot of impressive skills and whatnot, I'm arrogant and whatnot, but I don't believe in myself. I don't believe in my worth, inherent, bestowed, or otherwise.
For just an instant, I believed that I was going to defeat the Huns - so to speak - and it warmed my heart.
I shared this with her after that brief instant, and she gave me such a warm, empowering smile.
Wives are the bomb! They're just wretched sometimes because they bring our flaws to light. I hate my flaws, and I hate when my flaws are brought to light.
Thus, wives are great.

I've been writing nearly nothing of late — especially nothing creative — and I miss it. My body wants me to go to bed, but my heart wants me to write. This blog is just to keep my lazy fingers in the practice of typing. I mention that because one might be tempted to think that this rambling counts as writing. It really doesn't. It counts for writing as much as going on a meandering stroll counts as exercise for a marathon runner. A poem: I should write a poem - nothing special, just any sort of poem with a bit of rhyme I suppose.

Empty hallways of ever-busy neighbors
Collide with
Empty voids of ever-fearing thoughts.
…
Nah, screw that. Try again.

I wandered down a hallway once,
To find a prick of light,
And all that I could ever find
Was just a prick of fright.
You see, I was not looking for
A light of hopes or dreams.
I really was just looking for
A shroud of endless seams.
I wished to quiet all my thoughts
Forever underneath
The shroud and all the promises
Of peace it would bequeath.
Now, I am stuck with empty thoughts
Of hope or hope undone.
It doesn't really matter which,
Since I am one more son
Whose steps have never shaken much,
Whose voice has never boomed,
Whose speech has never swayed a crowd,
Whose presence never loomed.
So, there you have it, friends and fam:
Another cornered man,
Exhausted by his own weakness,
Alone, without a plan.
Though, as I speak those silly words,
I call to mind the truth.
I'm not alone - not e'en one whit -
But I am tired for sooth.
"I'll try again tomorrow" is
The bravest thing I have.
With stifled notes, my heart cries out
For lasting, piercing salve.