I'm meeting Simon (sometime poster for this very site) for a traditional
coffee and bitch tomorrow (this evening?). Good. It occurs to me that I haven't spoken properly to any of my old friends in ages (well, a week and a half, but that is ages). Which is a problem, because only old friends know you instinctively - they don't need to know everything that's going on to understand you because they've observed your actions and reactions for such a long time as to be able to relate on a sub-conscious level.
Working constantly doesn't help. I have people who I consider to be close friends at work, but they're only friends with one aspect of Tim. I don't pretend with them, but nor am I fully myself. When I don't have a real conversation with anyone for a couple of days, I begin to feel washed out, unreal maybe. You can lie about your life to yourself far more easily than you can to someone who knows you. I'm experiencing life, but if no-one's there to notice me experiencing it, is it substantially more meaningful than a dream of life? How do I know what is real and what isn't?
Maybe you're noticing it somehow, but since Sitemeter tells me my audience is shrinking faster than something that shrinks really quickly, blogging only adds to that sense of vibrant disconnection. It seems that now, when life is more pressing than at any time that I can remember, and when I'm feeling more creatively stifled than ever, I've suddenly found myself without any channels of release. I have no mouth and I must scream.
