I am not a runner.
I haven’t run in ages. The more I think I ought to run the less I want to. I am getting to the point of wishing I never had run, just so I wouldn’t have to think that I need to run and that I should be running.
I am not a writer.
Not strictly true. I am a writer, I am just not a storyteller. I try, and I have tried, and it is not something that comes to me. I can write, I just can’t do anything with it. The frustration is immense. Perhaps I don’t try hard enough for long enough.
I am not a photographer.
I used to be. I used to love it. I hardly take photographs any more, and when I do I rarely do anything with them.
I am not a label.
But I am. We define ourselves through such labels, identify ourselves to fellow communities by such things. They are our markers, our flags, our code of recognition and inclusion. I wear these labels no more, because past glories do not, cannot, undo the present.
I am not me.
I don’t think I have been for a while, not the full-blown, complete me. EF jokes that I am in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Perhaps I am.
At least I think she jokes.
There are a lot of things I used to do that I don’t any longer. Things I used to love; hill-walking, climbing, cycling, camping, travel, going out and about for a bimble. I used to do them. I used to do them a lot. I don’t any longer, and I’m not sure why.
This isn’t the cause or fault of anyone but me. This is me just not being me. Not doing the things I professed to love. Not being what necessarily made me happiest.
Not doing. Not being.
This is a thing I need to work through, a thing I need to understand.