Don’t fall in love with these words I write. I want to be honest, love, and tell you the truth. The truth is that these are average words. There are better ones out there, and trust me when I tell you, I’m an average bloke, with an average life, really. Nothing about me or my day is extraordinary, and I don’t intend to change that.
I wear the same clothes every day, do the same things every day, and I never get tired of it. The incredible sense of awe you spoke of after reading a piece I wrote was something you brought to it. I only write about the things I see, in words as plain as the paper I start writing them on. Then, I forget about them altogether.
I pay an extra ounce of attention to something, sometimes, and then come home and hack away at my desk for a while, until something resembling a paragraph pops out. When that happens, I go back to the typical day. I sip coffee by myself in a café at eleven in the night in the cold of winter because I’m used to it.
I’m used to being by myself. There’s nothing romantic or cinematic about it. It’s just how I do things, and trust me: you’ll get tired with how I do things. I’m either too caffeinated or too drunk all the time. I’ve much forgotten what I feel like when I’m neither. I don’t intend to find out anymore.
I oscillate between having so much to do that my head explodes and being so exhausted that I can barely get out of my bed. I’m no saint either. I lie, a lot, especially in these words. It’s not a lie per se. It’s either the exaggeration or the omission of some truth.
The “me” you’ll find when you spend time with me will be tedious and aggravating on most days. I’d ask you not to touch things in my apartment. I’d listen to the same music always. I’d run around the flat and the city, frantically, talking about some half-assed epiphany.
So, don’t fall in love with these words I write. I can be difficult; I’m sure you’re the same. I’m not a metaphor. I’m a guy in a sweatshirt sitting alone in a coffee shop. I’m sure you get it by now. Don’t fall in love with these words I write, love, the joke will be on you. Truth be told, the blame too.
You’ll expect the world of me, and I’ll expect nothing of you.