Some days I am just so sick of my own head.
I a tired of looking at myself, at my own face. My insides roll and flip just slightly with distaste whenever I catch a glimpse of the plain, somewhat agitating person glaring balefully back at me. I'm sick of my short hair. I'm sick of my dull skin. My too-long, skinny arms irritate me, as does the lumps and bumps on my figure that I think only I can see. I'm bored with Twitter and FaceBook and websites and weather and playgroup and morning tea and shopping. I feel as though I'm searching for something that isn't even real... an answer to the weltschmerz, the boring mundanity of life.
I'm tired of being in my own head... some days it feels uncomfortable.
Some days it is uncomfortable.
I wonder if feeling never quite good enough is perfectionism and a tendency to be too hard on myself, or a resonance of truth. If we're all OK, why do we invest so much in changing our habits?
Bored, bored, bored... taken roundabout the same time I wrote this post.
It's just boredom and restlessness, I tell myself, and that's OK; it wasn't really that long ago that I would have sold a large torn off chunk of my soul to feel such mundane, average emotions as these, dissatisfaction and itchy feet that ache to walk paths untread and unencumbered.
To be more accurate, it's probably an itchy soul. Itchy and irritated, infected and oozing. Searching for a balm, a rinse of saline, something to cleanse and invigorate.
I'm writing this at one am on the Friday night of the Problogger conference– thanks again to Chan’s Yum Cha for sending me. I'm in Melbourne. I love and adore most everything about Melbourne, I've been looking forward to coming here for weeks now...
I thought Melbourne would be enough, to scratch the itch. To make me feel some kind of alive again, some kind of separation between the exhausted weight of my body to a lightness of my core.
This time, Melbourne’s not enough. I don't know what I need– an elusive 'something', some intangible quality to leach the colour back into life again.
Maybe it's just boredom, fatigue, the need for a good nights sleep.
Maybe it's just me.