Writing blues.

9/21/17. Midnight. The house is quiet, but the mind is dishearteningly loud. This is the perfect time to read. Books are calling your name. You start to read and…it bores you. Your mind drifts to your own work. All of those poorly written stories. This is the perfect time to write. But it is all a nightmare. You have no readers. You have so much more to read. So much you want to write. But you feel like a failure. You can’t get the voices out of your head. Peace and quiet helps. But you haven’t had enough of it yet. Hopefully, soon.

Peace and quiet. A peaceful and quiet mind. No words, except for your own. Except when you allow someone else to speak to you through a book. But the satisfaction is fleeting. On to something else. Something else is always calling your name. You call yourself often. But you soon realize that you have nothing to say.

All of this has to go somewhere. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s somewhere. As long as it is something. But the struggles add up. You soon find that you are in the same boat as other writers. But reading them quickly becomes a chore. There’s so much writing to be done, and reading is such a chore.

Everything starts adding up, and time passes. You start to notice rust on your pieces of junk. Projects quickly swamp you. Time keeps ticking away. The future only shows the amount of work left to be done. And the voices are around every corner. Instead of Midas, you feel like death. You’ve accumulated fools’ gold. You’ve worked hard to keep garbage from getting in, but garbage is still coming out. And time keeps ticking away. Another day with a dream. Another day of the same.

All that is good is fleeting. The sandwich is good. But it is gone. The highs of the day disappear. A tolerance is built up. The mirror starts to get ugly. Everything gets harder. Everything starts to die. Everything continues to add up. Concentration becomes impossible. Failures keep creeping through the walls and the floors. The devil on your shoulder becomes your only welcome companion. The sands of time tick faster as you move slower. Frantic becomes a way of life. The projects continue to add up: which means the failures. Just like everyone else. We’re all failures. It gets harder, and we ignore it with our beer or our football or our family. Most of us run from that monster under the bed as long as we can. Very few confront it, and the rest of us pay a premium for it. But it is there, and it is waiting for us.

The dirt long awaits our arrivals. All of this is for nought at that time. What will we think of all of this when we are no longer here? When I am in Heaven, what will I think about my time here on Earth? Will I think about it at all? If I don’t, then isn’t all of this just a waste? Why not Heaven now? Sooner rather than later? Why work for today when it is all gone tomorrow? Because tomorrow isn’t that certain. Because tomorrow is longer away. Because tomorrow is eternal, and today is fleeting. Today is a sandwich. A book. Misery, and distractions. Today is failure. Empathy. Work. Struggle. Blood.

Today is Hell……

And tomorrow is Hell. Until it isn’t. Unless it is.

We keep trying to run from that monster under our beds. More food, more sex. More raising of children. More money. More, more more. Every day, more. Satisfaction is fleeting. Disappointment is around the corner, waiting to be drank away.

Tomorrow is just another day of much of the same…

Coffins are made and lied in. It’s all a dress rehearsal. But in the end, the play doesn’t matter. Regardless, we’re stuck with the stage. And all of the problems that come with it.

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