Why don't I write any more?
Not enough time? Not enough "inspiration"? It all sounds ridiculous, all of the lame excuses. I used to draw from the people and events around me, and that meant I was living a "literary life", I told myself. Am I living a lif
(more)e like that now? I work but I don't engage myself whole self in it. Who could? And I come home to relax but now it's with my wife and I love her and I'm just content to hang out with her, so what's literary about that? My personal time is escapism - games and fantasy epics and a little weed.
So what happened to that literary life? Walking down long avenues and exploring foreign cities and having angst-ridden, half-attached romances? I had one foot out the door wherever I went, but hey - that just meant I was going places, right?
Maybe it's all the same story. That character that I made of myself- insecure but bold, a romantic who never wanted to be in love, a traveler who didn't want to travel too far past European bars and cafes... maybe that character is still around. Maybe this is still his life, his adventure. What happens when that character really does feel secure, in love, settled at home?
He'll still walk the streets at odd hours. He'll still long for those student days from time to time. He'll want to write, but he just doesn't see it, doesn't see what's so damn important about this life that he has to tell someone about it. But it is life, and it's still his adventure, and that's worth sharing. He won't make himself great or special or unique, but maybe finally he can connect with someone. After all, he has still so much(less)
