I don’t feel like writing. Sure, I’ve got drafts I can work on. In fact, I just started reading over a couple, or rather – I attempted to before resigning to myself that I wasn’t in the head space to do creative work. But alas; although I do not feel like writing, I must write. It’s the only way I can reconcile lying on the chaise in the dark, the nape of my neck muggy and itching against the canvas weave of the cushion cover. This brain swirling with thoughts as the air from the ceiling fan dances with the thin light brown hair on my legs. I’m a writer. I’m naturally compelled to write when my brain’s feeling active. Sometimes it’s as if the brain is a radio antennae and we get this itch, this restless attentiveness, and we just have to tune in to ourselves. But in the end, we hastily judge whatever comes forth. I’m sure you, my dear reader, are enthralled with the ramblings of a guy who ate too many cookies tonight.
So, I’m narrating my sugar rush. Sometimes the things I write feel too sad – too morose. And I’m tired of reading short stories about families and the microcosm of inter family tragedy. I’m tired of reading about nostalgia and the pain from old wounds. Because, fuck – we all live it. As I read last night when looking up reviews of a certain television show: I don’t watch dramas because I have enough drama in my real life.
So, too in my writing – at times it feels as if I don’t need to be writing about the drama of life, because I live it, and I envy those who can write about dragons, and romance, and all the other ethereal aspects of adult life.
Because there are no dragons here. There’s just my neck. The hair on my legs. The dark. The fan. The swirling. The taught, sick feeling in my stomach from eating too many cookies.
And I can’t sleep. I hate myself for this exercise in pity. This sleepless drivel. This night just is. But it’s a reminder; we all have nights where we feel as if nothing would be more preferable than the sweet, soft respite of sleep – but here we are awake, riding the merry go round of our minds, trying to wind down. And it just is.
Another day. Another day.
Just press publish. You can’t be a prince every day. But you can be real. And you can be a writer.
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