I cannot avoid marking up a lot of blank pages with as many words as I can come up with on a daily basis. The urge to write inside me is just too strong for me to avoid doing it. I flip through all the other people’s stories I’ve got to look at, and all I want to do is make more of my own for the world to read. I strain and strain to unleash my muse, to be a vehicle for her to tell any story she likes to tell, through me. But it’s hardly working. All I get is all this stream of consciousness work, which tells the reader what I’m thinking about. I don’t really tell a story. What I do is record my own thoughts.
If that’s all I have to do, I am nonetheless willing to continue doing it.
My stories are not really selling all that well, anyway. I don’t know what sells and what doesn’t, but whatever people expect they’re going to get from me is a hardly salable quantity. I drop a single download of a story or two, about twice or three times per month. It’s not that I can’t rest my mind on a thought. It’s that I can’t interest others in what I’m thinking. I have no idea what goes on in other people’s lives. I’ve been alone for as long as I can remember.
People don’t really want associate with me. They never did.
I sit alone in my man cave, and hammer away at my keyboard, like I think I’m doing something, and get a lot of inane writing like this thing I’m doing here. It’s just plain being silly, that’s what it is. I used to sit down to tell a specific tale, but I’ve used up all the conscious stories I can think of. I don’t know what to write about anymore. I don’t want to just stop writing, or say things that don’t make any sense. I just want to sit and write all the time I’m alone in my suite, wondering what my mind will tell me to say next. I wonder how others feel about being alone? I wonder how others do a job?
I wonder how Hemingway feels in Hell without his typewriter?
I’ve always been the kind of guy whom nobody wants to have around, seems like to me. I’m so accustomed to being a loner, I’m uncomfortable around any sort of company whatsoever, except for a few friends or family over the phone or over the internet once in awhile. What I’m trying to do is be who I am, in an eternal void and vacuum in this life.
The eternal void is what I want to avoid in the Life to Come, but I seem to have to be in it most of my life now. There is no comfort for an old man anywhere he goes. I can’t think of any way to become more mobile, except to get another driver’s license, and lease a car. It’s a do-able thing.
Maybe what I’ll do is take driver’s ed, and get a Virginia Driver’s License, so I can rent a car once in a while. My bad hip be damned. It’s not exactly the kind of thing I ought to be doing, but it’s just rebellious enough to suit me. I’d rather go somewhere and be with people, but I don’t really have all that many people to be with, clear down here in Southern Virginia. So I just sit here and hammer away on my keyboard, talking about nothing to nobody. My brother called me back today. Put a nick in the wall. It seemed like he was embarrassed to have me on the phone with him or something, so I let him beg off, after about the third try he made to end the call. He wasn’t busy, just embarrassed.
What else could I have done?
I just don’t get it. I’d like to think up some really great fiction, and slip right into writing that stuff, but it just doesn’t seem to happen to me all that often. I’d like to have somebody come over, or go over to somebody else’s place, but who that person might be, I’ve got no a clue. When I was up home, I was working on some really nice, budding friendships with people, but my overdose turned out to be too much of a sickness for me to be able to keep up the friendships I had in my life.
I ended up having to bail out of my whole life altogether, and move away from those two kids who were probably going to kill me to get more money for their heroin habit, from my will, as if they could have. It wasn’t going to work for them. They would have just gotten themselves into an awful lot of trouble if they’d have tried it, but that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. How many heroin addicts can actually think rationally about anything, anyway? My future has been a lot more secure down here in Ginger Beach, but I have all these profound revelations to be writing something down about for people to read all the time.
The whole world just leaves me alone, anyway.
I just get discouraged about life sometimes. If I can’t keep friends in this life, will I have any in the next? Where is my life headed anyway? I’d like to know. I spend my days in a stupor, trying to wake up from my nighttime medications, but then it’s always nighttime again, before my mind ever clears well enough for me to get anything done again. This place is called assisted living, but it seems like assisted dying to me. It’s only early evening, and the place is as quiet as death.
There was always someone at home when I was young. We were a family of five, counting mother, and then there were all those old ladies. I used to get along pretty well with all the old ladies, but the time got by, and they all died; even mother and auntie died after awhile.
That’s the thing that those two kids were banking on, with all the hype they were giving me about how much they cared about me. My elder relatives were dying, and therefore I was worth a lot of money, according to them. They even tried to get me to die on an operating table, with a DNR order on my chart. The ultimate insult to them was that I survived the operation.