I’m back to thinking about my old fictional characters, the ones I met back twenty years ago and never seemed to get over, and I feel like I have to finish their stories before I turn forty.
It’s an odd thing, living through my own life and seeing their own lives play out in my mind alongside me, and I feel remiss in not having committed any of those stories to a lengthy set of pages. Recent events have me wanting to start things up again, to edit what I have and finally add the missing elements that have been wanting to take shape for decades.
For as much time as it takes, as much energy as it requires of me, I keep forgetting how much I enjoy writing. I love my children, of course, and music is my new hotness and probably always will be, but the written word has always been the love that gets me through everything and helps me sort shit out.
Like this.
I’ve been revisiting peculiar times in my life lately, a predictable action when one considers the turmoil into which I seem determined to throw myself. Erin is the main focus; I’m dismayed at how little I actually remember of her anymore, only that I loved her more than oxygen and how stupid I was for thinking anything could have lasted between us. Nothing lasts except for dreams, nothing lasts except for dreams, and I’m afraid the only thing I have that will last forever is my children, whom I’m afraid will reject me in more ways than my oldest, whether he knows it or not, already has.
In some ways, this week has slipped by with disappointing speed; in others, I can’t fucking believe it’s only Thursday and I don’t know how I’m going to get through today and tomorrow without seriously damaging myself.
“Somewhat Damaged,” ha.
Maybe next year I should try to play as Nine Inch Nails.
I’m not especially enamored with where this is going. I feel like my mind isn’t making the right connections, or that I’m not in the right headspace to make something pretty today.
I feel adrift today, he said.
I wish I could renew my passport.
I have so much to do.
Time’s up.
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