After finishing my shift at work today, I now have nine days off. This time last year, I was on holiday with my then lover. Years before that, I was on holiday with a pregnant lover in a log cabin. This time, it will be spent alone. In some ways it’s sad, and it makes me feel lonely. But, in other ways, it’ll be good for me. I’ve deactivated my facebook account, and am trying my best to ignore any distractions. I want to cut my ties with those around me and focus on myself, if only for a week or so. I’m going to start work on my novel again, the first time in seven months. With my passion for writing back, it feels like the right thing to do.
It’s all my fault of course, the way everything has turned out. Ruining relationships with ease, declaring undying love in expectation of the same. To be alone, is my punishment. Only, in many way, it’s turned out to be a gift. Without everything falling apart several months ago, I wouldn’t have begun writing again. Wouldn’t have started this blog. And since those two things came about, I’ve got my spark back. Writing makes me feel strangely alive, even when everything else seems so hopeless. My situation is a sorry one, especially as I’ll be thirty this time next week, but, I’m writing. And writing is what I’m about. For years, even though I was working on a novel, it never felt like I was a writer. Never called myself one that’s for sure. But these past few months, it’s taken over. It’s become my lover. The words bubbling within me all throughout the day. Swimming in my head, dancing before my eyes. Wherever I go, they follow. My imagination has unleashed itself. The truth, has at won out at last it seems.
Sometimes, it takes a fall to get you going, to let you see what’s important. For a good couple of years, the words were forced. Journal entries dried up, and my imagination became impotent. Now though, my inner self is blossoming. My strange heart and mind, growing with confidence in spite of it all. When there’s nothing to distract you, the words come. The desire shines so clearly. The power to believe. I am a writer. I am an artist. My shit is good, and when people say it touches them, that it makes them feel something.. Well, that’s what it all comes down to. Affecting people. Stirring emotions in them through what I’ve created. Finding that voice, that soul. It’s a lonely path alright, but it’s a true path. Others have such pleasant lives, but they don’t have the fire. They may have more money than I do, but they don’t have my magic. And the dream is that one day, people all around the world will be affected by my words. That one day, long after I’m gone, they’ll still be affected. And the ones with money? They’ll be nothing but a lost dream, dead in the ground and forgotten. Immortality is what I’m after. Something more than what all those around me are happy to settle for so easily.
And what does an immortal do on a saturday night? He masturbates, drinks a can of beer, and listens to King Crimson. He goes for a walk in the fields behind where he lives, and then, he comes back and lays down on his bed. Spends hours looking out the window at the fading sky. Beats himself up for all his mistakes, even though he knows they were all for the greater good. In my everyday life, I am regular, boring. Reclusive, and withdrawn. In my writing though, I’m fluent in madness. There are no boundaries. The rules don’t apply to me. It’s all about taking a risk, and doing what is in my heart.
I miss being with someone though. The love. The intimacy. All too often it’s been thrown away. At least this time, it gave birth not to empty pain and anguish, but a violent outburst of creation. For that, I can only be grateful.