Anyway, that's signposting for you. This blog is similar. I had a very interesting weekend. Friday was nice enough, I went out with some new(ish) friends and had a good time. Or I thought I did. No, I did. I just felt... unfulfilled afterwards. I didn't know why - I put it down to a general malaise and perhaps tiredness. I attempted to rectify it on Saturday by going out to lunch with a girl who I've been keen on for a few weeks, and I made a move. Man, I'm glad I did, but I got shot down. No, I got massacred. I got a world-ending barrage of anti-aircraft flak. I went down in flames. I'm writing this with something approaching a wry smile on my lips, which is good, because I wasn't feeling particularly amused afterwards, but I guess that's progress.
You see, I used to be a hopeless romantic, but by virtue of the fact that human beings are cruel and heartless bastards all, that has since changed. In fairness, by Sunday I was over it and had a bit of a chuckle about it. And that's a very good thing. It's important to take those shots. It's also never been in my nature to do so, but I have this year, and while the results have been mixed, I'm glad I did. It's also important to get over it when it doesn't work out, and that's something I'm a lot better at nowadays.
The truth is, there are few things as depressing as being a hopeless romantic. I would never go back. It's just a load of horseshit. You don't have to be the opposite either - the hard, cynical, forever alone bastard, but emotional extremes are just an unhappy and unfulfilling place to be. You don't want to be there. Emotionally unstable people are my anathema right now - few things tire me more than people who are captive to their emotional whims.
Anyway, does this blog have a point? Perhaps. In the course of thinking about this whole thing (perhaps something I ought not do - after all, I got shot down, I should just move on? Maybe...) I came to realise that I've had a pleasant break from what Gordy affectionately calls 'my bullshit', but I need to get back into it. I've been having people over, eating whatever the hell I felt like, drinking, smoking and generally acting like I'm where I want to be. Which I don't. And perhaps that's why I have this sort of general malaise - while work is going well, I haven't been approaching my training and diet with the Spartan-like discipline I need. But that has since ended. My capacity for tremendous discipline and tremendous hedonism never ceases to amaze me.
Anyway, starting Saturday, I went on keto, and while it's still early days, it seems promising. I am consuming satisfying quantities of green vegetables and meat, and nuts, which is keeping me pleasantly full. I did feel a bit of fatigue this afternoon, but that might just be the lack of carbs. My ketostix are varying between 0 and trace amounts of acetones, so I haven't gone into ketosis yet, but it ought to be soon. I'm back on creatine, I got a small tub of Jack3d (if my heart explodes in the next three weeks, someone sue them on my behalf) and I'm going to continue working on my goal of a 200kg deadlift and being able to run a sub-1 hour 10km.
Life is good when I'm disciplined. It has structure, and purpose. I have a fantastic bunch of friends right now, some of which are introducing me to new and exciting things like Dungeons and Dragons (*snort*), as well as expanding my musical, film and book horizons. And as of this weekend, for the first time since the beginning of this year, there are no active prospects on the horizon when it comes to eligible, dateable women. While I realise to someone else this might be somewhat depressing, considering my abysmal track record (I am not good at relationships, clearly), and in light of what success I have had this year, I'm quite okay with it. I've had fun, but it's time to get back to business. So I'm hoping that stays the same, at least until summer, when I can cut loose a little bit.
Oh, and one last thing. I was struck by two distinctive memories this weekend, but they came, as memories do, fragmented and discordant. The one was of going to an apartment in Parkhust when I was very young (maybe six?), and the other was when I was older, playing in the pre-pool mud pit that we had at our old house. What's special about both of these is the recollection of a unique tactile experience I had with each. The recollection was so profoundly strong, so overwhelmingly vivid, I could feel the curtains in the first memory as if I were touching them now. The sensation of the fabric, the evening light, even the smudges on the glass, although hidden somewhere in my subconscious came flooding back bright and brilliant. In the second memory, the feeling of mud between my toes was so real, it was all I could do to not look down to check if I wasn't in fact standing in mud when I remembered it. The granularity of the sand, the squelch-squelch sound, it was like my brain had locked up those sights and sounds in an airtight box for 20 years, and now they came flooding back, as clear and distinct as if I'd experienced it this morning.
I'm not sure what this means, but perhaps I'll write about them. In both cases, they are very good memories, and I'd like to have them written down somewhere for posterity.
Memories are very fragile things.
