Strange Days

Today is one of the many days I am glad I have an outlet for some of the thoughts that bounce around in my head. I have only recently started blogging and I really find it to be cathartic. I have browsed through other blogs on HubPages, and I have read some really great stuff. My little doo-dads pale in comparison to some of the blogs I've read.

I have read stories of triumph, anguish, and joy. I am aware of those feelings, but mostly I just feel out of sorts and, well... off. I mean, "off", as just left of center. My strange days are frequent. Have you ever had one of those days when you were sleepy, but you had a full eight hours last night? Have you ever had one of those days when everything you did seemed clumsy? I do. I fumble around at the keyboard for a few moments and everything starts to clear up. My motions become smooth and stable. I guess I just need to ground a little.

I am grateful to the storytellers and to the art of the telling. I have never written anything I expected to be read. I really enjoy writing, though. I enjoy reading your stories also... maybe, more-so. Sometimes I feel weird, and I just start typing anything. Many times my paroxysms are un-readable, and nonsensical, but it always helps to use words to remedy the strangeness I feel. Sometimes, I feel like a cassandra and have feelings of doom that irritate my close family members. Who knows? Maybe I am crazy. Or, maybe I am sane and everyone else is crazy.... Nah! I am just crazy. I do know one thing for sure. Nothing seems that strange once you've written it down.

Or maybe, things just don't seem as strange. 

The word, crazy, is subjective.  I go to a shrink because I feel crazy.  I have a good life, yet, I worry about the most preposterous things.  I don't want my daughter to suffer from my affliction.  My mother always worried about money, my dad, us, or anything that could be worried about.  She, sometimes, worried about all of these things simultaniously. 

Writing, to me, is a way of shining a light on the monsters under the bed to find that they are just a jumble of old gym socks.  Here I go, talking crazy again!  I have read hubs, in that the writer is suffering from my affliction. Is it loneliness?  Is it the fact that most of my problems are in my head?  It is really hard to vent about said problems with friends and family.  My family would worry that I was a complete nut.  I write to calm my demons.  If I write enough, I can make them go away completely.  I still have strange days.  I just like to try to write them away.  It works more times than it doesn't.