Time. Words. The freedom of not being in a relationship, and the loneliness that inevitably follows. Solitude. The need to sever those ties, so stories have the space they need to breathe naturally. Neglecting lovers comes with the territory. A cruel bastard I am. A coward, more than likely. There have been several women in my life. Some hate me, while, with others, it’s more likely pity. Such potential, and he threw away his education to chase dreams that will never come true? Yeah, that’s right. That’s what I’ve become. Some guy who sits in his room at night drinking beer and writing. While most get married and have kids, I’m digging deeper for the secrets that continue to elude me.
While those I’ve shared my bed with frown at the path I’ve taken, I can only frown myself. It would’ve been so much easier to become like everyone else. To have got the job and enjoyed the simple pleasures in life. I’m not interested in the simple pleasures, though. I want the darkness behind the veil. I want to dedicate myself to the act of creation, and that takes time, and it takes words. Sacrifices are made. Choices taken. It’s a lonely path; I’ve said that before, and no doubt I’ll say it again. This is who I am. It’s not a lifestyle choice or an image I’m trying to maintain. It’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing that makes me feel real. I’m selfish for sure, but you have to be when it comes to giving your all for what you believe in. The look in their eyes when I told them what I wanted to achieve. Yet without their love I’m nothing, so the same mistakes are made, over and over again.
You can’t blame them, though. All those years I said I was working on a novel, yet the very prospect of putting pen to paper terrified me. There was no blog either. Imagine that, a writer who didn’t write? As idiotic as it sounds, that was me. Yet deep down I always knew it was just a matter of time, of waiting until I was ready to begin my journey. And now I’m ready. Slowly the wheels turn, but they turn nonetheless. It’s taken years, and it’ll take plenty more too, but this is what I do. I write, I fuck, and I make a mess of things. I spend too much time by myself, and I have no intention of settling down to some lifestyle that isn’t me. The truth is often ugly, but the truth is what’s needed. I’m self-absorbed, a loner who never feels alone. I smile stupidly around others, yet when I’m by myself, introspection takes over.
The imagination. The notion of death, and the impossibility of unbecoming. The fascination of intimacy, and the subsequent fallout that follows when I can’t step up to the next level. I’m flawed. A loser in love with ideas and not possessions. Maybe these are all excuses. Maybe they’re an attempt to prove that I’m for real. I don’t feel I need to justify myself, though, it’s more about letting it be known that I’m not cold; that I’m not a monster. I’m just a kid who never wanted to grow up, who never wanted to embrace the adult world. For me, those who do rarely make it out alive. They lose themselves in the machine and go through life blind to the magic that exists so incredibly close to them. Within touching distance, it shimmers so beautifully, and that’s where I want to be. It’s where I’ve always wanted to be.
Categories: On Writing