for most of my life, actually, for as long as I remember, I’ve talked to myself as if I was real, as if there was some other me right beside me, listening, offering counsel, differing to me from time to time, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Perhaps it is you.
Last night the solid realization that I was never going to write another story and I was resigned. I have nothing to say anymore.
Having a children eventually grows into having another function of your body. Just as you treat yourself, you treat the child and obviously if you don’t love yourself, that child is doomed. My little daughter, what a burden we are going to place on you, all of our disappointments and hopes, our lost futures and regrets, are going to be put squarely in your path for you to accept or overcome: either way, it’s going to hurt us more than it’s going to hurt you.
Yes, yes I do find solace in food, I find joy in junk, I find comfort in the things that I know are not good for me. I’ve given up smoking, I’ve given up binge drinking (although I do take a bit of single malt from time to time, just to keep the valves honest during a poker game), let me have that at least, a little KFC and Taco Bell, a little grime to hold the whole operation in one piece.
And there was a time when I wrote behind steering wheels, blaring through red lights.
There are still many voices, but so awfully shy. Perhaps I’ve integrated them all and that’s why I fear the dark to come. The main problem is that I feel like I should make sense, that writing more and more should lead to something, a structure that comers to the surface and is instantly recognizable, if not admired.
All the good shit took WORK and I don’t want to be bothered anymore. I’ve lost faith in myself.
I’m just fucking lazy aren’t I?