[ Insert boring introduction here ]
I wrote an intro, something about Grammarly, but after rereading it, I’ve come to the conclusion that everything I write is nonsense. Still, I continue to write, because I suppose it could be worse, I could be doing something else, something less — perhaps not writing at all.
Instead, here I am, at someone else’s desk, writing about who knows what. A story, I hope. Something good, maybe. Probably not, because at this moment I feel scatterbrained. A collection of nonsense, hoopla, fudge.
The time for change has come and gone, as it often does. An extra hour would be nice. Today I’m caught in a windstorm, staggered, somehow finding my way back into my bedroom. Back to you. Because when I think about what it is that I want to write, the first thing that comes to my mind is you. Focus is nothing more but a fantasy. You’re all that I can think about. You’re the only thing I want to talk about. You’re the only thing I want to write about.
“A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thought” – Alan Watts
Flesh and bone, mind and matter, speaking in circles, repeating myself a thousand times, rehearsing the scattered thoughts that swim my mind — none of it makes sense to me. Fragments, pictures, clouds, confusion. Maybe I should make breakfast, maybe I should drink water and smoke a cigarette. Coffee.
Fragments, Nothing More
These are the reoccurring themes that float in my head, seaweed, sour patch, pollen. If I would have known that this would all end so dramatically, I would have done a better job of being present, talking to you more, analyzing your features, completely experiencing your scent. Whatever it takes to make you permanent, even when you’re gone. I need more of you, the thought of you leaving me is exhausting. I feel left out as if there’s something I don’t know. The pictures don’t do you justice, the memories only fade.
Eventually, I’m left with nothing, only the thought of what happened, never the truth, only fragments of a bad dream.
I attempt to remember everything you’ve told me, word for word, something about discernment, the cautious procrastinator, the message for what it was. But my eyes are painted by the morning sunlight, as I move further away from the images, the day dreams and the nightmares.
I’m Awake Again
Can I remember anything? In short, no.
For all I know I’m still dreaming, I doubt I’ll ever know what’s happening. Most days I’m lost, caught in the current wave, riding a phase that never transitions, that never concludes. Focus, I tell myself, try to remember why you’re here and what it is that you’re doing. But days pass and a familiar feeling of emptiness returns. I swear, sometimes I can measure its approach, I know when it’s coming, I feel when it leaves.
This occurs over some time, whether it be days or weeks, I cannot tell you with accuracy, I only know that it happens in repetition, and still, after some time of deliberate searching, writing, and practice that start with doubt and end with something good, I find a way to fuck it all up.
Yet, for some unexplainable reason, here I am. Still here, even when I feel like it’s nothing but a fantasy, a childhood memory, a fading dream, like mist from the clouds, fleeting vapor, cigarette smoke. A someone in this cosmic something. But who cares, because who am I to the seven billion, to everyone but me?
Frustration coats my intentions, and I think you can see it in my eyes, the way I move, in almost everything I do. I try to hide it, I try to walk with my head down like a stranger in the shadows. But you know me well. There’s nowhere for me to go, you can see it all, in full display, HD, 4k, 8k, X-ray.
I want to run away, I do, but I lack independency. Alone, I recite a thousand stories of escape, but I never leave. Not even close. I turn the lights off in an attempt to forget everything. My reasoning is if I cannot remember, it will eventually forget me and the things that I’ve done. But do we ever? I don’t think so.
A New Approach
I write every day, whether that be in a notebook or here on my laptop, the PC at home, anywhere. I just get so bored, the thought alone makes me want to fall asleep here on the keyboard. There has to be another way because something has got to give, right? So even if I don’t want to, I know I should. We all should. Books on writing written by Stephen King, Anne Lammot, and others, along with countless other high profile online writers suggest we make writing a daily practice. I think it would be wise to follow their teachings.
“I am always ready to learn although I do not always like being taught.” – Winston Churchill
So, what was the purpose of this piece? Truly, I have no idea. I just wanted to write, maybe ramble a bit, express myself a little. That being said, if you’ve gotten this far, thank you. Honestly, I don’t know why anyone would read any of this, but if you did, know that it means a lot to me that you traded your time, in exchange for a trip through my scattered mind. That was very kind of you.
Again, thank you.