There are times when I cannot sit. There are times when I imagine my life behind a desk, locked away in an office, or worse yet, horror of horrors - a cubicle, and I violently shiver and yearn to fight and be freed from this doom. There are times when I long to pack a simple bag, throw it in my car with my dog at my side, and drive off toward some unknown destination. As far as my gas tank can carry me.
But then reality hits me like a ton of bricks. And I know to do anything with my life, I must finish my degree. I must have a reputable job. Or is that the mundane teachings of my dear mother? Who attempted to squash any creative endeavors that I or my brother might have entertained for any momentary passage of time?
I still want to write. I want people to read the things that spill from my brain onto paper, and I want to see their reactions, whether disgust, entertainment, disdain, or understanding. I want to make my living that way. The thought makes me happy and keeps me sane, at times. Such as today, when I felt my mental state falling down around me, I started writing. And I felt myself centering and calming, and eventually tiring myself out completely. And still I feel the need to sit here at this screen in the pitch black of my bedroom and type out more thoughts as they come to me.
Who is to say that I have to be the pencil pusher my entire life? Perhaps somewhere in me is the author I yearn to find. The author who has more time for writing and finishing stories and ideas. Many times I am so topsy turvy and incomplete, scattered as I record my thoughts. William Faulkner would be proud. Nay, even the great, or not so great depending upon your opinion, James Joyce. Or maybe they would just be pissed at me for stealing their thoughts. Perhaps one thought that I have has been recycled between many many authors and writers in the past, just looping in and out of our minds through the ages.
See how I get? Crazy shit, right? You should take a look at my computer files. Cleverly hidden on my desktop, if you ask me, in plain view. They are damn hard to decipher, even for me at times.
So I bid you all goodnight, and I retire for the fifth or sixth, perhaps even seventh time, to my bed.
I'll stay in town for another day or so.