For the past couple of years, the Fall has been the period when things change the most for me. I think I'd like it better if it was the Spring instead. It would seem a little more optimistic. But I suppose I understand that endings are much more obvious than beginnings, so in that way the Fall is appropriate.

I've written about my end of year tradition before, but for those of you too lazy and/or uninterested to go read this and this, what I basically do is set aside a brief period at the end of each year to reflect and remember and anticipate. This used to be something I did every New Year's Eve, but like I said, it's the Fall that's been seeing the most changes lately, so I've been forced to rethink the timing on my yearly tradition.

That first link points to the entry I wrote to close out the period from November 14, 2003 until October 9th, 2004.

I just read through that entry, and I didn't do a very good job with it. I was holding too much back. I was still actually hoping that things would work out for me, and I didn't want to mess anything up more than I already had. So I wimped out and didn't give the year the full recognition it deserved.

I'd like to correct that now, because another year has passed, and I don't feel like I can close it out until I properly close out the one before it.

On November 14, 2003, I fell.

I fell so slowly at first that I wasn't even aware of it, but from that first moment, my fall was inevitable because it had already begun.

I picked up speed as the months passed by, but for the longest time I refused to see the danger I was in. I actually enjoyed the feeling of free-fall. I was falling through clouds. I couldn't see the ground below me, so I didn't know how far away it was. I guess I just assumed that I'd land soon, and that I'd on my feet. I'd always done it before.

But this time, by the time I finally broke through the clouds, and saw the ground still so far below me, I knew the truth. I would not survive this fall. It was just too far. I was moving too quickly.

I fell for over ten months, and I hit the ground on September 24.

Every bone was shattered. I suffered in ways I'd never imagined before. I wished for my suffering to end, but some small part of me still wanted to live. Some small part of me clung to life, even clung to the pain because it was proof that I still lived.

After a while, the pain became so much a part of me that I dared to believe that I could live with it. I dared to believe that I could actually survive. I dared to open my eyes, and I dared to look around.

The real end didn't come until then, when I saw that there was nothing left to live for.

On November 14th, 2003, I fell. I fell for a long time. And on October 9th, 2004, I died.

I don't think tonight was quite as bad as I'd expected it to be. Not that it was a good night, but it didn't completely suck.

I started out in the red room with RealTrainGirl and GreenBeerDude and TrainGirl and WhatsHerName. I had myself a Stone Smoked Porter (134).

After a while, those people all left to go to this Mac's place that I don't like, so I stayed.

I spent some time sitting on the loveseat, and some time talking with BamaCouple at the island.

My second, and last, beer was something new for me:

Sierra Nevada Porter (12)

(bottle) I've never been a big fan of this brewery, and this beer did nothing to change that. A decent coffee flavored porter with the typical Sierra Nevada lagerish finish. It got better the more I drank, but it never quite reached the point of being good.

It was a pretty dull night, actually. I think the highlight was going to Walmart and buying some movies.

I'll probably think of some other stuff to write about tomorrow morning.

I'm just going to go ahead and predict that tonight will suck.

I'm not in the mood for going out, but I know that if I stay home then Rich O's will have The Most Exciting Night Ever and I'll feel worse for missing it.

My fucking toe hurts today. I stepped on Happy's stupid slipper that he stole from me, and it bent my toe back about a half inch. That may not seem like much, but it was plenty.

What I should do is stay home, drink this lovely bottle of Rogue Imperial Stout that I bought the other day, and write my entry to close out the year. That's what I should do.

Well, my shirt is dewrinkled so off I go.

Yay.

I'm wondering.

Just because I feel like I could put the pieces of myself back together, does that mean that I should do it?

It really wasn't so bad, being rubble. Once I got over the indignity of it all. There's wasn't a whole lot of pressure to stand up when everyone around me could see that I simply wasn't capable of it. There was also very little fear that things could get worse - how could it? I was already laying on the ground.

Well, one way things could get worse would be if I rebuilt myself and then got knocked down again. For with every fall the debris left scattered across the ground gets smaller and smaller. Eventually, I fear, I'd be reduced to a pile of dust. Dust that the first strong wind would spirit away, leaving nothing behind to show that I'd ever even existed, let alone that I'd lived, and that I'd loved, and that I'd lost.

Sometime over the next few days I need to write something to close out this past year. I really should have done it weeks ago. But I didn't. I didn't because it's scary to reassemble a life that was never really that great to begin with. Am I supposed to be happy that I finally have a chance to go back to that bland, boring, fucking content person that I used to be before I met her?

I used to think that it was all I wanted - a chance to stop being sad. Now I've actually got that, and it isn't enough. Not even close. I don't want the sadness back. I could get it. Easily. I could just pop these corks that contain the pressures inside me and let everything wash over me again, further eroding the softest parts of myself and eventually leaving nothing but hard, stony chunks of hatred and bitterness behind.

I certainly don't want that.

What I want, what I want is to be someone I don't think I've never been. Someone I'm not even sure I'm capable of being. A person both capable of, and deserving of love. If I try to rebuild myself, I'll try to do it right. I'll try to make myself into the person I want to be, but I really don't know how to proceed. I don't even know where to start.

It should be an easy choice to make, but for some reason I'm really struggling with it. The chance for failure is very real to me, more real than it's ever been before. The pain of my last fall is mostly gone now, but the memory of it sends chills down my spine.

If I turn my gaze from the past I'll either have to look to the future, or shut my eyes forever.

Okay, this is a little embarrassing.

Since my electric company finally joined the 21st century last year, I can pay all of my bills via the Internet.

All of my bills but one.

My damn water company, with its miniscule monthly bill, still clings to the antiquated, dilapidated, and outdated bill-paying system of having to write an actual check and mail it to them.

This is beyond annoying. It's barely worth the effort - and the cost of the stamp - to make the stupid payment. So what I do is I send them a check for $100 every few months. Then I'll have several months in a row with a positive balance so I don't have to bother with them.

Every once in a while though, as in twice in the past six years, I procrastinate to the point where I get my water cut off.

The first time this happened was May 2003.

The second time was today.

Grrrrr.

I dug through my pile of mail, and the bill is for $14.66, and the due date was October 15th. Yes, my water company has cut me off for being three weeks late on a $14.66 bill.

So tomorrow I get to go to my sister's house and use her no-water-pressure-having shower, then go pay my water bill (I should pay in pennies, but I won't) before I go to work.

On the bridge, on the way to work this morning, I saw something funny.

Eight cars in a little mini-pileup. The first guy had been rear-ended, then the guy that did the rear-ending had been rear-ended himself, and so on until there were eight cars occupying the space of what five cars should take.

I thought this was funny because (a) even though no police or ambuli had arrived yet, everyone was out of their cars, meaning nobody got hurt seriously, and (b) I'm sure they all deserved it because THEY WERE FOLLOWING TOO FUCKING CLOSE! and (c) it just looked funny because each car had its nose buried under the ass of the car in front of it and (d) because I was in the right lane so I didn't get inconvenienced very much.

This is one of those times when I have nothing to say, so I'll just sit here and start typing, and hopefully I'll think of an actual topic before the Sun swells into a giant red ball and sears the Earth to a crisp.

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Not working yet.

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Well, shit.

This was a bad idea. I want to write something good to help counteract some of the crap I've written lately. But I'm having the same problem I've had for weeks now - A complete lack of, I don't know, whatever it is that I seem to need to be able to write anything worthwhile.

Passion? Sorrow? Longing? All bottled up. They can't hurt me, but neither can I use them for inspiration.

I read other journals and I see that it is possible to write entertaining entries about mundane everyday events, but I've never been able to do it. It is possible to write creative and engaging fiction, but I've never been able to do that either.

All I've got, all I've ever had, was this intermittent ability to write about pain and loss and longing and sorrow. Those things used to be what drove me to write. But that was okay, because they also backed up the words that I wrote. Now, now the words look hollow on my screen because they are hollow. Hollow words written by a hollow man.

I'm not complaining, really. Being hollow is in many ways preferable to being filled with the searing hot ashes of a thousand broken dreams.

See what I mean? Drivel. Pristine, unblemished drivel. There was only one dream.

I wonder if I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Can you get that from the stress of realizing that you're a complete moron and that everything you've done for almost two years has been the wrong thing?

I need a vacation. In one month I'll be in Las Vegas having one. But before that I've got to get through this fuckwad of a month.