On Writing

One of the smartest people I know told me that in order to be a proper writer, I need to write every day.  The problem is that even though I have a million thoughts and ideas and conflicts and epiphanies every day, I don’t have the attention span to write them all down.  I wake up with something deeply compelling – a story trying to get out, or a message trying to get in – and I’m too tired to sit up and write.  Or I wander around my house thinking about how not to think – trying to find ways to distract myself from my thoughts – and all I end up doing is thinking more.  Thinking differently.  I have whole conversations with myself, because my brain is trying to tell me one thing, and my body is telling me something different. 

I literally just took out a different journal and hand-wrote some words that I can’t write here.  Things that I only want to say to one person. 

I can’t believe the fundamental disappointment I feel in that person.  We have been friends for 30 years, and I have never, NEVER, not liked him. 

I don’t like him right now.

It’s not about love at this point, because I will always love him for one simple reason:  All moments are connected, and all moments in life are happening at the same time.  Time itself is fluid like that.  We are all just a collection of moments which all run forward and backwards and sideways.  I love him collectively, as a whole.  I just don’t like the person he is right now.  I wonder if he is so far down the rabbit hole that I won’t ever see him again.  I wonder if I will ever know what happened.  I wonder if he genuinely dislikes me, or if he’s embarrassed for being so disrespectful. 

I don’t think I’ll ever know.  I don’t think he has the personal courage required to own up to himself and his actions.  I’m beginning to think … Right, I’ll keep it at that last statement:  “I’m beginning to THINK.” 

As it turns out, the more I think about him, the more I both love him and hate him at the same time. 

And now I’m realizing that I’m just sitting here thinking about something that doesn’t matter, because I am the only one in the conversation.  So one more day of “writing” done, because writing isn’t changing anything right now.

I cannot, via words typed in a document, change the fact that there is no WHY.  Things simply ARE.  All I can do is articulate things in my brain in a superlatively ineffective way to get the thoughts out of the way.  Flush the emotions into the toilet of cyberspace, hoping that (one day) I will either find some answers or accept that there are none.