A Passing Thought
One of the most common repetitions in my life is the accidental appearance of an insect in my apartment. And no, not a bona fide pest like your ants, flies or mosquitoes, but more of a peculiar crawler or buzzer. And every time this happens, I do my best to direct it outside without damage to its little body. I do this, and if I find someone with myself in the room when it happens, I often say, “I hope life is kind to me when I find myself erroneously in the wrong place.” I have said this often. As I said earlier, this is one of the most common repetitions of my life, a routine, if you will.
Another common repetition is the shaky foundation of my life when it comes to writing, and pursuing this discipline in how I want to pursue it, and when I say how, I believe it is the opposite of just stumbling into it. I want to pursue it with intention, with attention, with the interest of an eleven-year-old boy composing his first poem about how he feels out of sorts with the world. Doing things correctly is important in life, and it is far more important than people give it credit. Last month, I wrote an essay about how I set my bed in the morning with utmost precision. I do it consciously. And while it does take a slice of time out of each morning, I must do it like that to preserve its meaning in my mind. Everything is meaningful when done properly. But the important things are more meaningful than most.
As I go forward into the years, as I grow older, and as I see the dearth of time and attention in my life owing to the rather real matters of living and making a living, I feel out of sorts with this practice. While the ideas, the premises, the many concepts are dime a dozen, and while I do have projects, as much as I detest the word when used for artistic matters, in the making, I have not been able to sit properly and do it right. And I have blamed myself, and I have blamed the corruption of my mind with simple pleasures, and I have blamed a lot of the world outside, and I have blamed others, and I have blamed circumstance, but I have, since last night, come to a simple conclusion.
It may not work like this for all writers, and to those who do not suffer from this, I bow in respect and envy in equal measure, but for me, this practice requires a sort of emotional consistency that my life has been unable to provide for the many months that have passed. It may appear like an intelligent excuse but the words are specific because they have been mulled over like the finest glass of wine in the middle of October. And while it could be chalked up to being young or being in love or being invited to a wedding or a party or an event and being unable to say no, it has, for all intents and purposes, interfered.
As things stand, I do not quite enjoy sitting down to write any more. And since the bills of my life stand proudly still, I must move my attention to other matters. And if it is in earning my share to make others richer than I could ever be that I must waste my time on, then that is what I must do.
This is an unfortunate condition, but even more than that, this is a disappointing confession. It was a simple idea concocted by a simple boy a long time ago.
I will call myself a writer, and I will pretend to be a part of their world, and earn my share, and live my life, but always, without fail, I will write. And I will do it as if it were the most important thing in the world, and I will do it as if it were the only thing that mattered. And they will never know. And I will never care. And only when the writing is done will I be a person of the world again.
I could delve and dig deep into this, but I reckon it is rather simple when all is said and done. The other day, when someone asked me what I did, I did not say I was a writer.
So, let the projects sit and gather dust and decay until I can have a morning that is not about frivolous matters like money and invitations and a stuffy nose. The only thing left to do is to learn to make my peace with it, that life changes for all of us, and that most of us are slaves to money, but some, some of us can become slaves to happiness, too. And both of those things go hand-in-hand, and then, there is no time to write.
Or perhaps, I simply have found myself in the wrong place in life, and everyone who is here has failed to show me the way out. Perhaps, it is that, and nothing else. The kindness we give away is seldom returned to us; that is why it is considered kindness. This, too, has been a lesson.