Unfortunately, the urge to write arrives at inopportune
times. At work. Just before bed. In the middle of the night. During the day
when my attention is taken up with a task such as driving, taking a walk with my
family, going to the bathroom, or exactly at the moment I finally sit down for
the night with a drink to unwind.
I don’t want to write now. There’s nothing particularly inspiring
me, gnawing at me. I don’t despair much or fear much, so writing isn’t the crutch
it used to be. If anything, writing could be fun again, if I let it. I’ve
thought of poems to write, scenes to create, how it would be fun to write a
crazy, stream of consciousness book that rambles and moves, flows all over a
wide range of time that may or may not exist. I want to get weird. The problem
with being weird is that society doesn’t like weird. We embrace differences and
we are tolerant, but we don’t like when people say things that challenge our
beliefs. We don’t like actions that don’t fit our norms.
I’m too old to get weird, I suppose. But that’s what my core is telling me. Write. Meet with people. Travel. Wear whatever feels right. To me. I want to spend hours reading, thinking, meditating. I want to reach another level of fulfillment without going the standard way of religion or wakefulness or any of the other scripted horseshit ways people seem to go. People are so unoriginal. And now that I think about it, what I want to do doesn’t sound all that weird at all. It’s exciting to feel and think like this though. I sense change on the way. It’s going to be a slow process, but it’s coming. I can sense it making its way around my insides. Strengthening me. Getting me ready.