Trying to get down to basics tonight, getting done with a particularly rough week at work and get some more of my personal life sorted. Always seems to be the issues. The rough week was all me, all my head being a million other places then where I wanted it to be and the same in my personal life. Then I get a phone call from a ghost, a memory of a life that I could have had and it’s just the cherry on top of a lousy week. I met someone incredible last year around this time. I also started losing someone incredible at that same time. I’m still writing the same dime store horror with all the florid prose and pretty images and I still find myself deep in this introspective fog because, in the end, I never learned how to sort my shit out.
I am a writer. Not a cop. Not a soldier. Not a hero. I come from a long line of brave, heroic, legendary figures but I’m just a writer. I day dream and paint pretty pictures with words. I’m a hopeless romantic which is great if you want a whirlwind of passion and adventure but to settle down with, to start a family and a life with, well, I’m a disaster. Like a wounded dog I’m lying here tonight licking my wounds as I get ready for another weekend cycle of working my ass off doing on the mundane, utilitarian things that allow for life to go on all the while dreaming and wishing and scribbling in notebooks that never seem to take me further than the front porch.
Yeah, real light, airy post tonight. With luck, maybe I’ll have something worth reading before the next forty eight hours are up.
Cross your fingers.