I COULDN’T WRITE TODAY

(Original image by Matthew Henry)

I couldn’t write today.

Couldn’t put together an ending to this short story I’ve been working on for a couple of months now. It was frustrating, but I realized after some thought that all my successful stories had been more or less true, and I didn’t have to make up things as much as record what had happened or what I would have liked to have happened. I think there’s a skill set I’m missing writing fiction ex nihilo, at least when it comes to the ending. It’s hard to tell though because I’ve been so inconsistent lately. Hard to stay motivated without someone putting a fire to your ass day after day, but I think I’ve come full circle. I’ve left my delusions of grandeur behind, my desire to impress. I’m focusing more inward — what I want to say and why. Otherwise, there really is no goddamn point.

Besides, I feel so much lighter having written. A smile seems to cling to my face no matter what happens during the day, and so I continue on without any hope of success. It’s liberating… lonely too… and a hell of a lot more difficult than just drinking and watching television, but that’s where my happiness is found anyway, so I might as well.

All good. All good. Time passes faster with each day, and the same simple task becomes more and more difficult as youth sifts between our fingers. All good. I have a job, a family, a nice apartment downtown. And I still have enough in the tank to be creative. That’s more than most people have. Alex has a couple classmates that have regular seizures. I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to handle something like that without giving it all up. But in those circumstances, you rarely have a choice.

So we flow from one moment to the next, playing the odds as best we can for as long as we can, but we all lose in the end. Sinner and saint crucified on the same damn hill as the sun rises blood red. Don’t know why it’s taken me this long to put it together. There’s really nothing challenging about life besides the pain. The nuts and the bolts of the thing are essentially universal. And those moments before and after work are up to us to finesse to build a life worth living.

It’s work though. Of course. Another task that comes calling precisely when you have nothing left to give. That’s the beauty of life, sort of like gravity. You can’t rest. The gods will not let you. And at the end, Death starts feeling like a reward, so you go along with it. I believe my dad checked out along these lines. Life did not turn out the way he wanted, and so he drank himself to an early grave. My brother gets high for the same reason. I drink too much for the same reason. I also write. But I couldn’t write today. That used to get me angry, unconsolably depressed, fearful of the day and week to come. Today, I swallowed it down and moved on. I surrendered my ego on the alter of failed expectations. I saw my wrinkles in the mirror, my grey hair, and said okay, cocksucker, give me all you’ve got. I’m through fighting. I’m ready to live finally, whatever nonsense that may entail.