"The time comes upon every public man when it is best for him to keep his lips closed.” Abraham Lincoln

It’s taken time for me to overcome my laziness, and self pity. Far too long, some would say. Then others wouldn’t care much, if any. . . I guess the question is, if a blog is written in cyberspace and no one reads it—does it exist? I would argue yes. Because the purpose of a blog can vary from author to author. Just like one man’s trash is another’s treasure.
I wanted to reintroduce myself a little. I have come to terms with many things introspectively. I’m a drastically different person than I was a decade ago. I recently turned thirty-years-old. Many greater men have posed this question, or the conclusion that was drawn from the question, before me. I think all birthdays can make street corner philosophers out of all of us. Especially the significant anniversaries.
What I’ve figured out is that the Ryan of yesterday was a man that defined himself through strong friendships, hopes and dreams, and the promise of more effort tomorrow. I lived in the moment, some could question my definition of living, but it sure felt like it. My accomplishments were executed in bursts of motivation, but with little earnestness. In retrospect I haven’t accomplished much as a man, and my list of regrets needs a table of contents.
My greatest successes are my wife and daughter. That’s a personal success that I am very thankful for, but somehow I feel a void that they can’t feel. It can be torture sometimes. This is not an indication of their vast importance, and fulfillment that they provide me. But an indictment on choices that I’ve made, and continue to make. Some of my past friends have succeeded with career, in life, in art, and faith. I sometimes wonder how they feel? I miss the relationships that once made me feel like I was connected to the very fabric of my existence. I can feel sullen at times, and struggle with my pedestrianism and personal lack of distinction.
This isn’t something that anyone can necessarily help me with, nor do I need to be pacified. I guess that it is something that I need to come to terms with. I’m hoping that I will find my muse underneath the bills, junk mail, and paraphernalia of a life incomplete. In the meantime I will cling to the very things that make me happy. My daughter and wife. My bible and guns. The few friends that remain close to me. And the distractions that I’m so passionate about. . .

(I think all men in their thirties are entitled to a pity party)