Melancholia

I have had this blog for about three years.  Or is it four?  I like it.  I am not dedicated to it.  It has never been my dream to be a writer and I more or less started it on a whim.  Sometimes I just don’t feel like I have anything to say, so I disappear for a while.

That, my friends, is not something they recommend in the good blogger handbook.  It is not how you get followers or comments or views or any of the other things that the statistic page makes you care about when previously you had not been aware that they were even things.  I don’t get a lot of views.  After however many years, I have 99 followers, and maybe 10 who interact regularly. (Love you guys!)

I assume it’s just a phase.

I’ve been having issues with my blog lately: primarily, that I don’t feel like writing in it.  I am in a mental place where I’d rather take things into my mental space than put things out in the world.  I’ve started a few posts, but haven’t found any of them compelling enough to finish.

Instead I’ve been reading some of your blogs.  And a lot of books.  I’ve been working on my silver and considering paint colours.  (We finally found a place!)  I’ve been reading guide books on Spain and Morocco and searching for a hotel for our night in Amsterdam, which is apparently an obscenely expensive city.  I’ve been getting full nights of sleep.

Presumably, one of these days one of these things will inspire me to write again.  In the meantime, to keep you entertained, I will put up small things I find funny or interesting or cute.  Like this fluffy baby donkey:

My dad had a donkey when I was a kid.  I don’t remember it being this cute.

Tis all.