Bookmark #682

Earlier this afternoon, I had the time and inclination to write the right words. Why did I not sit and write then? Well, because there were obligations to complete and meetings to attend. I believe most writers, including me, prefer writing in the morning or as soon as they wake up because there is little to no noise in your mind. There are no troubles, and reality is often masked by the world of your dreams. If you let the day get on too far, it becomes harder to find the words. They are often quieted by the echo of the people in your life, the jokes and banter from a television show, the calls from your account manager at some bank, or the plethora of emails and messages, all of them asking for your attention, a piece of your mind. I missed the opportunity to write with a cleaner mind once again. It does not mean I cannot write to the best of my ability, but the writing of the morning and the writing after you have lived through a day are different. You can read any work—a poem, a few sentences of prose, or a novel—and know precisely when it was written during the day. It gets glaringly obvious once you notice it.

I will not go into the differences or give you a rubric on judging which is which, for that is not my job. As is evident, I barely have my own life in order as far as the knowing of things is concerned. In many ways, my life is not some chic, snobby orchestra that I like to pretend it is; on most days, it is messy jazz playing in a small, cramped pub that smells of booze spilt on its sticky floors. I believe most lives are like this in the end. We try our best to do it all, to live like we have any control over anything, but ultimately, we are all just building it as we go. It is a creaky tenement in need of repair at all times, always. It is a project that never sees its end. It is a garden that always needs weeding. Some days are straightforward, some are topsy-turvy, and an artist must sit and work on all of them.

A lofty goal; if only I could talk to someone about it all. But then, they would only tell me “there is always tomorrow” and to let it go, that this obsession is pointless. I reckon it is called a lonely profession for a reason.

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