Missing the days of active blogging, sort of.

Used to be I never had a shortage of things to write about. Or should I say until I found sobriety and all that goes with it, I never had a shortage of things to bitch about. That is the difference between then and now. Then, I looked outside of myself to lay blame or find fault. Now, I look inside first to pinpoint the problem. Because it all boils down to not "what's wrong with them?" but "why does it bother me so?"

Criticizing others is the easiest thing in the world to do. Being responsible for yourself, your words, your actions and your way of thinking is much harder, but not impossible.

So I'm much more inward-oriented now, I guess. I read a lot about spirituality, which of course is not to be confused with religion. I don't even want to call them "self-help books," but I suppose that's what they are called in bookstores. They are written by noted psychotherapists, psychologists, and other men I consider to be "enlightened." I have no idea how most of these men really are in their everyday lives, but their writings tend to have universal themes that I wish I'd been receptive to 20 years ago. Integrity. Honesty. Responsibility. Compassion and empathy. Learning how to worry less. How to combat negative thinking. To think before I speak. Basic lessons, but I was too busy trying to get high.

One such writer, now deceased, is M. Scott Peck, was a controlling workaholic and borderline drunk who alienated his children, but somewhere along the line he managed to pen "The Road Less Travelled" (and its sequels), which became a sort of bible for at least two generations of readers. He said himself he wasn't sure how he wrote it, but that it came to him. So, imperfect as he was in his daily life, he left a legacy that I now cherish and that led to many other writers of his ilk.

All this to say that what goes on in my soul does not necessarily make for riveting reading in a blog format. Maybe, somewhere along the way, I lost part of my sense of the ridiculous while seeking the sublime. I know I have a tendency to take myself very seriously most days, and that's something that needs to change...

I can't stomach some of the things I once found so amusing. The celebrity-bashing websites, for examples. I took immense pleasure in reading about the antics and self-destructive public behaviour of pop stars and self-important actors, or the downfall of outspoken homophobes and loudmouth TV preachers and self-righteous politicians who couldn't contain the nasty skeletons in their closets.

But I don't love that stuff anymore. I just find it sad and distasteful. Much like the show "Hoarders" or any of those reality shows about human trainwrecks. There's no pleasure in it. (Except maybe the corrupt politicians. Yeah. They're still kind of fun to watch when they crash and burn.)

I hope that's a sign of maturity. It might just be that I've become incredibly boring; who knows?

No need to answer that last question, kthxbai.