Surely it can't be true. I'm not a writer. I'm a wolf in sheep's clothing. Writers don't drop out of community college, twice. Writers don't have four year long cases of writers block. Writers don't accumulate years upon years worth of work, only to throw it all out because they think it sucks. Do they?
Writers actually have, you know, talent. They read voraciously. They share their work with others. They live interesting and fascinating lives. They surround themselves with intellectuals and hold deep philosophical conversations. They have proper grammar.
I can't be a writer. I've abused and neglected the craft for far too long to even dare to label myself as such. I'm just a wordist. At least, for now.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Walking
I walk through neighborhoods that are not my own. I walk anonymously. Mixing in. Smiling as if I belong there. With the right kind of confidence and head nod, you can fit in anywhere.
I walk down their sidewalks. Where their children play. Where they drag themselves into their houses after a long grueling day at a job they hate. Where they check the mail. Where they worry over that bill they don't know how to pay. Where they argue with their partner. And where they carry their suitcases on the way out the door.
I peer into the windows. To see a reminder. A glimmer of the past. Something I once knew. A sense of normalcy. Even if chaos can be considered normal. Go long enough without it and you will start to yearn for even the craziness of it all over again.
Their living rooms are messy. Clean. Cluttered. Simplistic. They cook in the kitchen. They order take out. They grill in the backyard. They eat a tv dinner on their coffee table.
I walk through these neighborhoods, hoping I never forget what it was like to once have something like this. I know its gone forever. And I don't know if I will ever get anything like it again.
(Originally Published June 2009)
I walk down their sidewalks. Where their children play. Where they drag themselves into their houses after a long grueling day at a job they hate. Where they check the mail. Where they worry over that bill they don't know how to pay. Where they argue with their partner. And where they carry their suitcases on the way out the door.
I peer into the windows. To see a reminder. A glimmer of the past. Something I once knew. A sense of normalcy. Even if chaos can be considered normal. Go long enough without it and you will start to yearn for even the craziness of it all over again.
Their living rooms are messy. Clean. Cluttered. Simplistic. They cook in the kitchen. They order take out. They grill in the backyard. They eat a tv dinner on their coffee table.
I walk through these neighborhoods, hoping I never forget what it was like to once have something like this. I know its gone forever. And I don't know if I will ever get anything like it again.
(Originally Published June 2009)
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