It's cold in the apartment in the lonely morning but I can't let that stop me from getting up early to put words on the page. My only desire in life anymore is to break through the wall and to start playing around in its wreckage. Watch the lettered blocks fall and scatter from a great height and then I can spend my mornings rearranging them as I like to.
Here are a list of things I would really like to write about:
The adventures of two goofy young cats, one tiger-black and the other honey-white. The tiger is brave, adventurous and outdoorsy, the honey-white is shy, creative and extremely talkative.
A tank is burning somewhere in the line of vehicles being pulled through the deep woods by a long train. It is mid-day in the summer and there is no chance of rain. It is unlikely the fire will be discovered before the train reaches its destination and by then it will be far too late.
A young man is accused of a crime publicly and accepts blame for it, allowing it to derail his entire life and scrap all of his dreams. Accepting the judgement of his peers and disregarding the call of his own heart for over twenty years.
The feeling of being on stage, of screaming with abandon backed by a cacophony of drums and guitars. Writhing on the floor, exorcising demons, collecting smiles and applause. The joy of having your own flawed writing echoed back to you by the front row of eager kids.
The broken bond between me and my brothers and the awkwardness that remains between us all. We know we are meant to love one another and the traumas we experienced together help us to stay bonded in a vague and unspoken way but still we almost never speak and have very little to relate to one another with in adulthood.
The adventure at the cabin on LSD and the places my mind found itself in fear, in solitude, and why I chose fear and hid. "Have you ever read Gulliver's Travels?"
A eulogy for all the suffering and dead cats, a few of which I know can be attributed to my neglect and lack of concern, and why it turned me into a total helicopter parent when it comes to my current cat friends. How I am learning to relax and trust life and fate.
It doesn't matter what I write, just that I do so. It's obvious there are a great many things inside of me looking for a way to escape my mind and soul and be expressed somehow. Smoking weed doesn't nullify it anymore, only brings my lack of focus and effort into sharp enough relief to cause constant papercuts. I have to utilize this discomfort to make something worthwhile for myself. I have to do it today.
Five hundred words seems like such a small and simple goal - a few paragraphs really - but it is the bare minimum from today forward. Every morning I get up and write some drivel. Any day that I write less than this is an absolute failure.
Here are a list of things I would really like to write about:
The adventures of two goofy young cats, one tiger-black and the other honey-white. The tiger is brave, adventurous and outdoorsy, the honey-white is shy, creative and extremely talkative.
A tank is burning somewhere in the line of vehicles being pulled through the deep woods by a long train. It is mid-day in the summer and there is no chance of rain. It is unlikely the fire will be discovered before the train reaches its destination and by then it will be far too late.
A young man is accused of a crime publicly and accepts blame for it, allowing it to derail his entire life and scrap all of his dreams. Accepting the judgement of his peers and disregarding the call of his own heart for over twenty years.
The feeling of being on stage, of screaming with abandon backed by a cacophony of drums and guitars. Writhing on the floor, exorcising demons, collecting smiles and applause. The joy of having your own flawed writing echoed back to you by the front row of eager kids.
The broken bond between me and my brothers and the awkwardness that remains between us all. We know we are meant to love one another and the traumas we experienced together help us to stay bonded in a vague and unspoken way but still we almost never speak and have very little to relate to one another with in adulthood.
The adventure at the cabin on LSD and the places my mind found itself in fear, in solitude, and why I chose fear and hid. "Have you ever read Gulliver's Travels?"
A eulogy for all the suffering and dead cats, a few of which I know can be attributed to my neglect and lack of concern, and why it turned me into a total helicopter parent when it comes to my current cat friends. How I am learning to relax and trust life and fate.
It doesn't matter what I write, just that I do so. It's obvious there are a great many things inside of me looking for a way to escape my mind and soul and be expressed somehow. Smoking weed doesn't nullify it anymore, only brings my lack of focus and effort into sharp enough relief to cause constant papercuts. I have to utilize this discomfort to make something worthwhile for myself. I have to do it today.
Five hundred words seems like such a small and simple goal - a few paragraphs really - but it is the bare minimum from today forward. Every morning I get up and write some drivel. Any day that I write less than this is an absolute failure.