I’ve been wrong before but never again. I feel the weight of my shoulders lifting and when I tell you my pain is no longer within you won’t believe me because the position I’m in. I run through these days like I have a factory producing how much ever I need, when in fact they are numbered but nothing can satisfy my greed. I weave my own path usually but now I’m set in a rut, paving my days with the craze of nothing but glutenous stuff. Does that rhyme? Close enough. It doesn’t matter if it does cause I’m not here to impress you. I’m just doing this for myself and no one else. I was only inspired to write this shit because I might like it from the spike I hit in my mind seemed fit for this time I sit on my bed and wit on this page like this.
Strange things happen from day to day. I wake up one day, and I’m not the same. The same pattern and routines fill my time but nothing seems consistent. I’m in a vacuum of my own creation. Through the winds of change and the becoming that occurs in time, I’ve found myself in a different situation than I could have ever imagined as a child. I’ve mistakenly been courageous when a little confidence would suffice and conservative when I should have been cutting loose. I don’t mean for any of this to rhyme but some of it does anyway. That’s just the way the vacuum’s moving me today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write something less fancy and more fact. But all the while I’ll be myself and there’s nothing wrong with that.
I don’t think I’m a good writer. I think I’ve been fooling myself.
I’m not a writer. I’m more of an explorer outdoorsy kind of person. I like the physicality of life and not the “art.”
I can’t inspire through words like I so desperately would like to. I’m just so-so in this respect but I think writing can do some good for me on a more selfish level.
So I’ll continue to write even though most of the time I hate what I write.
My only moments when I think I might have written something worth reading is when I just stopped reading from an author with good writing skills and I write as if I were them. My personality is completely void from the text and I’m basically stealing their personality for a moment.
In school I was good bullshitting my way through some essays so I thought I was good at writing. I was actually just good at filling in blank space.
I’m sure none of my professors felt inspired after reading some of the things I wrote but rather a sense of accomplishment for getting through such torture.
I think I’m giving professors too much credit though – do they actually read what their students write? I doubt it.
I jumped on a train out of boredom. I didn’t know where I was going. In a country where I can’t read the language or communicate with the people.
But I was bored so why not.
I road the train for a few stops until I felt like it was time to get off.
I walked out confidently and through the exit of the station.
I took a left hand turn because it seemed more interesting than what going right had to offer.
I kept walking until I seen a bridge on my left side at an intersection. So I took the left. Am I going back at this point?
I walk to the middle of the bridge and look out over the river where 2 boats are sitting (waiting to load stuff I assume. Perhaps oil from the smell of it.)
After a brief wondering a continue my journey over the bridge and through a seemingly poorer neighborhood. Unkept parks, dirty looking buildings, etc.
Then after taking some random turns based on nothing but my “instincts” I found some street markets and wonder through them. Looking for nothing and not wanting anything I could just walk past everything without feeling I missed something.
When I was younger, maybe 11 or 12, I can recall going places and making random decisions just because they felt right. My intuition seemed to be well calibrated as I usually found enjoyment in the turns I’d make. Or maybe I enjoyed what I did post-turn because I had a good mindset. Maybe either way I went I would have enjoyed what was there because I was generally happy with just about any instance.
That feeling seemed to fade after a while. Not really sure if I’m making the right turns in my life and whether what I’m doing is the best thing I could be doing in the moment.
I definitely developed a fear of missing out. Years later after my first recollection of FOMO I discovered this expression. At first I didn’t think it applied to me. I was in denial. This is exactly what it was. I was deliberating over a thousand different choices and ultimately choosing none in most cases.
Since then I’ve learned to just live in the moment and to not worry about what else I could be doing. Just following the path.
Okay, so my promise to you (probably just myself) is that I’ll write and post something everyday.
I don’t care what it is. And at first I expect it to suck. But sucking is the only way to get good.
You have to suck bad before you can suck good. And maybe then you can suck great.
So here’s to being good at sucking, in the future.
Or is it the reverse?