I want to be a writer but I haven’t written in twelve days. Twelve fucking days. So I’m forcing myself to write. Every day. Thirty minutes, no distractions, no breaks, no music, no go-backs. Thirty minutes…that’s the worst. Half an hour.
It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about. It’s quite the contrary. Where in the sweet fuck do I start when I have so much to say? So I’m putting my musings onto paper but without the conscientiousness and desire for perfection which leads to my never actually putting anything out at all. I’m not trying to wow you with my vocabulary or show you how poetic I can get. I do that. I’m a leo. I like to wow you. It’s a strength and a devastating weakness.
I want to write about important shit, like the innumerable thoughts that plague my mind at any given second. I want to discuss world politics and my views on love and religion and feminism. At times, I want to give the world a shake and call on people to wake the fuck up. Or do I just gently and sweetly try to convince everyone that love is, and has always been the answer?
It’s difficult to write about one thing when my thoughts have been skipping like skilfully flung pebbles across the static surface of a lake. Skip…skip…sink. Gone. I wish that suspension points were composed of two periods. Three has always felt like too many.
There are so many bats here. I adore them, despite the misfortune that they remind me of my thoughts. They too, are night-dwellers, soaring freely upon the day's demise, and so clumsy, bumping into each other and walls, and forgetting what they came for. Oh, and they love the dark. Same.
I read some of my older posts and wish that I lived in an era before computers so that I could set my words on fire and rid the world of their painful transparence and naiveté. There are times when I resent that bright, cheery, wildly optimistic side of myself. I wouldn’t want to be a pessimist and I’m stoked that I can be so hopeful and joyous but I’ve also always said that cynicism is underrated. A hopelessly romantic idealist / sarcastic cynical realist. When did I become a paradox?
I’ve been isolating myself a little bit lately. I love people and making new friends and connecting more than anything. It hurts these days though, to sit through the small talk. The shallow surface encounters, also known as the majority of human interactions, have gotten so very painful.
It’s distressing to witness how disconnected we are from one another when we are, in reality, all one and the same. I hate to sound cliché but I want to talk about more than jobs, the weather, and how the government is never good enough. I want to ask questions about shit I actually want to know about without being deemed "crazy" or inappropriate. Love and death and magic and the universe and sex and addiction and heartache and light and darkness. I might implode if I have to talk about what I do as opposed to what I am one more time.
Why do we even ask “how are you?” if we don’t actually want to know? What if someone told us the truth? What if they replied: “Actually Deborah, shit’s really fucking bad. As a child, I dreamed of being a dancer and instead, I’ve been pushing papers for seventeen years. I’m stuck in a loveless marriage and I can’t remember the last time I did something I enjoyed. Oh and also, I drown my feelings in a bottle of wine and two Ambien every night and I haven’t had sex in four months.” What if that was the answer we got? What if we valued truth over bullshit niceties?
I want to write but it's difficult to quiet the noise reverberating ceaselessly around my cranium since I arrived in this new continent. I swear I stopped thinking when I was in the jungle, or in the desert, or at a festival with gorgeous hippies in some magical oceanic setting. I felt like the god damn buddha over there. So still, present, serene. I'm in the city now though, and my mind is as busy as Newtown station on a Monday morning.
Sydney, Australia, December 2017.