I always loved to write, in that precious unproven way where it was mostly about hating myself and occasionally writing the same derivative poem over and over again. This behavior has lasted well into adulthood.
April of 2009 I decided, rather arbitrarily, to try to write every day(more) for a month. I did, and then tried to extend that for the rest of the year. I was in a relationship at the time. Lots of schmatz. I regret nothing.
It's a muscle that needs to be flexed, writing. See -- even now, it's only been a few days and it feels like swimming through syrup.
I'm trying to make a go of it as a freelance writer now, and even though it's still a good way off from being my career, I'm on my way. None of that would have been possible if I hadn't buckled down and made writing something I had to do every day.
Fast forward to today.
Today I was cooking eggs at the restaurant where I still earn most of my living. It was muggy, hot, and everyone was super bitchy. (Myself included.) Then towards the end of my shift I saw on my smartphone that an article I had recently written had just gone live. Suddenly working somewhere I really don't want to be was made more livable by knowing that somewhere else I existed as someone I want to be. Somewhere in the world there was the me that I'd prefer the world thought of when the world thinks of me, which it doesn't, really, but that's kind of its own blessing.
So yeah. Don't fuck around. We're all going to die before blind luck gets the job done. Trust me, I've tried. Doesn't work.
I'd like to just sit silent
For a year
And observe the world around me for a change
Instead of barreling through
Take the blinders off
(more) And stop a while
Smell the roses, the coffee
Whatever it takes to really 'live'
Because at the moment
I feel I'm not doing enough of that
In a year if I look around and things are the same as they are now I will die. So is it any way to live at all, anytime? Is this seriously my acceptable now?
Drastic action is needed.
(more) I'll beat the shit out of something. Walk in front of a car. Cash in all my empty bottles and roll my quarters and sell my furniture, take a steamer to Land's End and walk off that imagined edge.
Counting on Something/Anything to occur between then and now.
Some people spend their whole lives waiting for that one lightning-strike of a thing.
If you would not wish your present circumstances on your future self, what prevents you from saying I quit and walking off the edge of the ugly known into the unknown?
With age comes withering. You become amenable to seeing yourself in a dim light. You get used to seeing yourself the way other people see you. You run the risk of thinking other people have the magic words, the magical outlook, and the privilege to determine what you think, wonder, wish, feel.
You end up following things like Oprah's Book Club and going back to church.
You have to watch out, as you get older, and things don't line up exactly with your ideals.
Or not even that: you must watch out, and force fate's hand, when you lose the strength to keep believing in your own, best self. (less)