What's the what?

I miss the catharsis of writing.

In recent years, I've found myself able to blog less and less. I fear both the risk of banality and the career and personal consequences of over-sharing. Yet I can't bring myself to create an anonymous account somewhere new.

I enjoy spewing out hyperbolically-enhanced versions of my neuroses. Ranting about politics. Rambling excitedly about everything and nothing.

But - the older I get, the more secrets I have to keep. Some belong only to me, but others aren't mine to divulge. Self-censorship ensues. It becomes harder and harder to get anything onto the page.

In addition, I've been feeling increasingly lost. I'm sure the myriad of stressors in my life is a contributing factor but ... Okay, maybe THE contributing factor.

Or maybe it's not just stress. Maybe it's just a normal twenty-something thing to go through. A healthy dose of existential angst? Part of self-discovery?

I'm tempted to be a little more selfish, share a little more, and work up the intestinal fortitude to be bold. Bold-er, at least. Or I could just escape the world by curling up on my purple couch with Cheeto, the two of us safely burritoed in my fuzzy green blanket.

Maybe a little of both.