‘I dont want to mess you up if yr on a roll’ / ‘I dont have anything’
I dont know. I want to write something with purpose, something with a structure that can have some sort of message or at least plot. And I cant even do that currently. Not even close, even.
I tend to like the things I’ve written in the past as maybe pure journalling LOOK AT WHAT I WAS THINKING THEN solipsistic stuff, but more than occasionally it feels clever & funny & sincerely insightful, if under draped sheet of irony or whatnot.
And then in the now-moment, in an actual attempt to describe something other than my subjective feelings, it just dont come out right. I cant gaze at anything more than me own navel, altho during such intense moments of meditation slash cunnilingus, I can think so productively about fiction & narrative.
What’s it mean? Probably nothing. Probably I used to have long hours of day-dreamy plotting & incorporating every new thought or fancy into some story structure, where now I mostly am consumed by work life, relationship life, drinking life. Reading is an afterthought or busride relegation.
‘I am not that good,’ I type, scrunching up my brow. But part of me, the lazy part, thinks I am or might be or could have been if only, only I’d applied myself.
There’s nothing universal I can say, tho, is there? There’s just this solitary life of some wit & talent but very little more than that; no connections, no convictions, no purpose.
I won’t get a good sacrificial death, or immediate family mourning or even that OF COURSE A WRITEr DIES OF SUICIDE/MAJOR ORGAN FAILURE bullshit. Because I’m not a writer. I’m one of a billion douche bags, of which a large percentage describes via letter some attempt at meaningfulness.
I was sober a week & a half, then fell back to drinking as stupid habitual crutch. To write something anyone will want to read? Nah. But maybe I will, and maybe that’s enough reason to try survive another year, innit?