I am not sure why I write. Some days I have to write. Things pop in my head and I have to get them down on paper. Even though we both know that getting it all down on paper won't work. That the things I write are never as good as they sound in my head. But that is just me fooling myself. Maybe they words in my head are exactly the same as they appear on paper. It's just reading them that makes them sound bad.
I have only one pair of shoes that fits. But the shoes are old and worn and have no support. When I walk on them for a while my back begins to hurt. My heels cry out because the shoes lack support and by the time I get home the pain has spread into my neck.
I am off of work today. I am thinking about going drinking. I like to think that drinking in the daytime is romantic. I think drinking in the day makes me some kind of working class hero. Drinking in the day is something that Bukowski would do.
I got off topic. I was supposed to be writing about why I write.
I write because I have a huge ego.
And the world ignores me.
At least when I blog someone notices me.
I write a blog because I want to write something important someday. Or at least something entertaining. I write because I hope one day to get good at writing and make a living by writing. All it takes is practice they say.
I write because I can't let all the hope in me die.
It's just too painful to live that way.
I don't want to become one of the haggard looking. Not like the women who visit my grocery store or the 40 year old men I see riding the bus with me. Their skin is marked by the sun. They stopped using sunscreen 25 years ago. Now they are burned. Red skinned. Their faces are lined with wrinkles. They have on dirty work clothes marked with black stains. They stare out the windows of the bus hoping for something.
But the bus just keeps going.
And I practice my writing.
Which would adorable if I were 18.
But I am not adorable. I am almost 40.
It's funny how long we can hold on to our illusions.
I am just going be some broke, working class, diary writing, asshole until I die.
Nothing ever changes. I guess I am getting in the mood to go and drink now.
It would be nice to feel good again.
I was in a good mood for a week. I did not let work get me down. I was positive. I made chit chat with the customers.
The blanket was lifted off me.
It's all chemical. My depression.
Sometimes my brain hurts. But the brain doesn't like keeping all the pain to itself. So it spreads the feeling outward so that it reaches my limbs. I struggle just to wake up from dreams.
The world is covered in a fog those days.
Most of my life gets spent in the fog. And it is easy to get lost in a fog.
But the fog is the only thing that is real.