A lot of the times, living in here in Missouri really leaves me with nothing but time to write. That might sound romantic, but it's not so much. I have this tick about always having to be doing something important, something meaningful. I'm nearly always aware of it. It's something in me which wakes when I do, and probably stays up long after I've finally gone back to sleep again. Outside, the world is filled with puddles of melting snow and chilly wind. The land is bleak and bare. It is February. There is nothing going on in town and there is no where to go. Whatever you do or have must be done by you alone, or with a few friends. Often times, with jobs how they are - most everyone's schedules don't match up too well. This means you have time alone... alone with the Nuisance. That persistent feeling that you have to - must - be doing something.
So I write. I wonder if I just down enough words between gasps of intermittent boredom I can bleed out some of the impatience. I feel listless, grey like the land here. Grey, gray, grey. It's a funny word. I like using it in my stories, because again, it evokes some sort of mystique. But that's story telling for you. In the living world, grey days and times appear just so. I will be off work in about an hour and then I will drive home in my rusty white Ford Contour and probably sit back down into my usual spot on the couch and binge-watch more Netflix, or play more video games. I like and don't like doing it. I like it because it's familiar and occasionally enjoyable. I don't like it because I feel like I'm hiding from life and because of the Nuisance. Later, if I don't get side-tracked and I feel more or less up for it, I write. I always write fantasy. I've tried writing other things, but it always ends up as a fantasy. I'm not sure why. I dream about places and lands that never were. My house is usually empty since my wife often works late (she works too much).
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how this is just where a fantasy story might begin. In the Grey Days... in the nothing and the piles of old slush.
Right now I'm writing about two Wizards and a Nameless Girl. They live in a far-away land with no name full of islands and magic. There's often so much magic there, that wonder is hard to find. But that's only a concept I've recently realized exists. In my stories there is usually a personal quest people are on. I feel like I have to figure out how to make it special. I have to figure out why it matters. It's important. But I don't know if I can figure it out. I want to rush through the story to the end... I want Christmas to hurry up and happen so I can know what I got. I feel that way about here, too. I want life to hurry up. What does that mean? Will anybody like it? Do I want people to like me? I act like there's an invisible stage I'm always on. Sometimes I get tired of my current story-lines and I wonder about other lands and lives far away.
I read somewhere that artists are miserable people. I don't know how I feel about that. It seems like it's the sort of thing an artist would say to make themselves feel better. I don't know if I trust it. But when Steph, my wife, says it we laugh and we mean our laughter. How can you just change something with only a few words? The right sentiment from the right person... the right relationship with the right gritty bonds can transform something from dubious to lovely.
I wonder if I write enough I will change. I wonder if I wait long enough, the blase will fade away. I remember remembering a better way. I wonder why I stay here. My parents are always overtly trying to pressure me back to New Mexico. I feel like moving back would be admitting defeat. I value my freedom and individuality too much to move back - even for culture, even for family, even for better opportunities. But I also think it's not just for me that I stay. I think that somehow I'm supposed to be here. As dumb as it is. As drear as it is. I don't understand why. Maybe when someone stakes their claim willfully, the strength of their resolve makes for a firmer ground for others to stand, too. I hope so. I hope there's meaning to all this. And not general meaning - not pie-in-the-sky meaning- but real meaning. Something that makes sense and can be understood.
I know I live in my head too much. Being stuck at home for 5 days is just too much. Sure I was sick but I had to do something. The Nuisance was back again, I guess. I still feel sick. But maybe I'm better now, a little bit. I want to matter. I want to save the day. There's so much saving that needs done here. I don't see no cavalry. I don't see grand miracles. I see little people in faded streets. I see needy and I can't meet all their needs. I see what's left of beautiful slowly drift apart. And I don't... I just don't understand why it must be.
We need Ways, not Directions. We want directions. I want directions. I want do this, this, and then this and bam - there you go. Problem solved. But we don't get that sort of permanency here. Stability. We need Ways. We need to hold on.
So I write. I wonder if I just down enough words between gasps of intermittent boredom I can bleed out some of the impatience. I feel listless, grey like the land here. Grey, gray, grey. It's a funny word. I like using it in my stories, because again, it evokes some sort of mystique. But that's story telling for you. In the living world, grey days and times appear just so. I will be off work in about an hour and then I will drive home in my rusty white Ford Contour and probably sit back down into my usual spot on the couch and binge-watch more Netflix, or play more video games. I like and don't like doing it. I like it because it's familiar and occasionally enjoyable. I don't like it because I feel like I'm hiding from life and because of the Nuisance. Later, if I don't get side-tracked and I feel more or less up for it, I write. I always write fantasy. I've tried writing other things, but it always ends up as a fantasy. I'm not sure why. I dream about places and lands that never were. My house is usually empty since my wife often works late (she works too much).
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how this is just where a fantasy story might begin. In the Grey Days... in the nothing and the piles of old slush.
Right now I'm writing about two Wizards and a Nameless Girl. They live in a far-away land with no name full of islands and magic. There's often so much magic there, that wonder is hard to find. But that's only a concept I've recently realized exists. In my stories there is usually a personal quest people are on. I feel like I have to figure out how to make it special. I have to figure out why it matters. It's important. But I don't know if I can figure it out. I want to rush through the story to the end... I want Christmas to hurry up and happen so I can know what I got. I feel that way about here, too. I want life to hurry up. What does that mean? Will anybody like it? Do I want people to like me? I act like there's an invisible stage I'm always on. Sometimes I get tired of my current story-lines and I wonder about other lands and lives far away.
I read somewhere that artists are miserable people. I don't know how I feel about that. It seems like it's the sort of thing an artist would say to make themselves feel better. I don't know if I trust it. But when Steph, my wife, says it we laugh and we mean our laughter. How can you just change something with only a few words? The right sentiment from the right person... the right relationship with the right gritty bonds can transform something from dubious to lovely.
I wonder if I write enough I will change. I wonder if I wait long enough, the blase will fade away. I remember remembering a better way. I wonder why I stay here. My parents are always overtly trying to pressure me back to New Mexico. I feel like moving back would be admitting defeat. I value my freedom and individuality too much to move back - even for culture, even for family, even for better opportunities. But I also think it's not just for me that I stay. I think that somehow I'm supposed to be here. As dumb as it is. As drear as it is. I don't understand why. Maybe when someone stakes their claim willfully, the strength of their resolve makes for a firmer ground for others to stand, too. I hope so. I hope there's meaning to all this. And not general meaning - not pie-in-the-sky meaning- but real meaning. Something that makes sense and can be understood.
I know I live in my head too much. Being stuck at home for 5 days is just too much. Sure I was sick but I had to do something. The Nuisance was back again, I guess. I still feel sick. But maybe I'm better now, a little bit. I want to matter. I want to save the day. There's so much saving that needs done here. I don't see no cavalry. I don't see grand miracles. I see little people in faded streets. I see needy and I can't meet all their needs. I see what's left of beautiful slowly drift apart. And I don't... I just don't understand why it must be.
We need Ways, not Directions. We want directions. I want directions. I want do this, this, and then this and bam - there you go. Problem solved. But we don't get that sort of permanency here. Stability. We need Ways. We need to hold on.
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