I searched for you like twilight meets dawn.
Wondering where the path would leave me, trailing like an insignificant rainbow before the surprise. Something awful that could have taken place here. I wonder where that would lead. Crying pains in a mental hospital psych ward is where the best of writers have gone only to succumb to drug or drink… I used to call them “junkisms.”
My benders produce the best writing. Binge watching 5 hours of a show, reading 100 pages of a book. Making a 24 hour long playlist. I want to work long hours. I want to be supported. I think my work is worth patronization. The old term the Italians used; and my smidge of blood reckons so.
I finally got around to cleaning up my site, I dusted my room. Small tasks of getting the ordinary out of life; which I’m assured is just rampant untreated adult ADHD at this point as I’m already Autistic… and epileptic.
Only minor inconveniences, if one makes them so.
I taste snow on my teeth and my breath reeks of iced hazelnut coffee.
“I wonder where it all goes” I always use that.
So in my head on my phone, hoping whatever I chock down is good even if it’s short.
It’s much faster typing on a keyboard and I can get things done.
Back to writing full-time people, chop chop.
I looked at my stats and was wondrously, deeply fascinated of the cities and regions associated with my views, yet I’ve only made chump change. How the fuck do I drive traffic to my site without getting an SEO?
And I had the horrible discovery that all my best writing came out when I first took this full-time, and when I was making more money.
The vacation is over, folks. Go home.
My roommate moved out and that’s left me in the discomfort of what I told my psychiatrist was “quaint introversion” and they said immediately “and that’s good!!” and so it shall be good. I want to get back to knowing who I am without life being a party everyday.
A full page there we go, that’s what I wanted.
And what I want is just to prove myself as a writer.
I think I’m getting good again.
I have this pit in my diaphragm that doesn’t know how to explain itself and it must be written, as cliche as that sounds.
I hope it relates to good adventures and unnecessary measures on how to stop being a dork and get myself socializing and trivializing any doubt that I can’t be taken seriously in a world full of failure and rejection. Independent freelancer, I think is what I’ll use from now on because it sounds important. It sounds real… but I love writing, i really do.
I never fall out of love with it, and I think that’s what’s important. It’s the one mainstay in my life I have besides music that I must have. Consistent passions.
Even as I grow tiresome, I know the cold air will just chill me and it’ll be a long day.
I was going tap out around 2:30am but chose to get up. Fuck it. Finish the baggie and wait for someone to brew the coffee. Which is now in my industrial metal shaker bottle with tons of hazelnut creamer and I’ve smoked half a pack of cigarettes in a day because my vape is dying. Oh well.
I hope this is surreal and well spoken for in my viewership. You are not unseen, and you are greatly appreciated.
A Good Morning to You All 🙂
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