The Last Bits of Nothingness

I woke up today feeling good. While I slept, I played in my dreams with friends from across the world and friends from throughout my life. We broke into a building and had a war with fire extinguishers. That was my dream. I made it out just before the police came and began wagging there fingers at those they caught for doing such a wrong thing. It was the best dream I've had in a while. There was no death, no fear, no panic. I didn't wake up sweating or sad. My eyes just opened unassumingly, waiting for the waking experiences to dictate what was felt. There were birds chirping and I could see the blue of the beautiful sky beyond the bushes outside my window. There wasn't any need to worry. I woke empty, ready to be filled in by the day.

The clock said 7:30 when I rubbed my eyes and gave it a glance. The mornings are my favorite times, at this time in my life. But waking at 7:30 when you don't have a job and no money to spend, well all that does is give you more time to think or be bored. The beginning was boring. After I showered, I sat in the living room and watched the window for a few minutes. Then I opened the shades and went to the kitchen to make coffee. I love the mornings for many reasons, but take away all the beauty of the first moments of sun, and the contemplative silence that comes, and leave the coffee and I'll be set. I love the mornings because of coffee.

There might not be any spice to these words right now, but I'm ok with that. They are forced. These words are part of a last ditch attempt by some part of my mind, heart, or soul to keep me from doing the serious work, the scary work, the intense and longstanding work that requires only the best I can give. Well, I'll get to it after I write this and after I go back to the bathroom, which might take a while because I ate too much lamb last night and then got high and swallowed a box of Tim Tams, the magical Australian cookie that disintegrates into a blissful mud pile when it comes in contact with hot liquid, forcing the eater to shove all of the dark oozing goodness viciously into their mouth to avoid staining any clothing or furniture with drips and drops of melting chocolate. Yes, I might have to hit the bathroom again. But then I'll get to work. Well, no. I have a really good book and I'll just read that instead. I'll just bide my time until it has to get done. Well, it has to get done. Now is the time and people are waiting. Listen to my little delusions. Are people waiting to hear the story? Well how could they know they want to hear it, how could I know they are waiting? I haven't written it yet.

I'm scared, but that is why I must write. I'm bored, but that is just a ploy from the devilish side of my mind that doesn't believe in me. I'm curious and I know that the ending hasn't even happened and therefore can't be written. But that makes it all the better. I have loose outlines written down. My mind is aware of the correct formats, and what it will sound like, what it will feel like, if I do this right. If I write honestly, if I tell the whole story, if I tell it for the right reasons, than the end will present itself after I've written the beginning and middle. How does one write the story of their life when they have just begun living it? Well, you can discuss that question too, in the book. Just start writing it. Stop writing this and start writing IT.

Did I do that already? What of the many pages that have been written? Are those not the book? Ah, that is, in it's current state, just madness. It's like the young Chilean man said, the madness is the honest way of living, but if I can turn the madness into work, if I can organize it, than I can succeed with the madness alone. So the pages written are just madness. The words I have written are thoughts, fears, visions of pain and hope, memories of both, but without structure, without the work of turning them into a piece of the whole story, they are just pieces of a story that has never been completely told. It's time to tell the story. It's time to focus, get the outline down, fill it in, decide the right plan of action, put it all on a giant piece of paper and then light it on fire. Fuck the idea of planning. It is just another way to wait. Do. Just do. That is the task of one who is inspired and understands that the feeling of inspiration wont leave until the work is done. How do you just sit and write a book? Don't know, but that will make it so much more interesting to do it.

Am I wearing the right pants for writing a book? Is the temperature right, for writing? How about the music? Is this a good song to start with? Should I play it on repeat? Yes, that's right. Get it out. Let the last of this senseless waiting come out for your own eyes to see. The history of man may not have a single writer who was concerned with whether or not they were wearing the correct pants for writing. Maybe no one ever thought of how important that could be? Maybe I'm an idiot. Or maybe an intelligent idiot! Yes, I like that. Makes sense. And these are the perfect pants to write a book in, I can feel it. As long as I don't continue my Tim Tam addiction, I'll be able to continue wearing them and continue writing. Maybe I don't change pants until the book is done. Maybe I can do this all day, come up with excuses and ideas to discuss without ever really doing anything. I know I could. In fact, that's why I am writing this.

Yes, these words are for you, procrastination. You see, I'm done waiting and I just wanted you to know that you won't be needed for a while. It's a tough blow, I know. It sucks to feel useless. But you're not useless. You're a friend forever, just like anger, ambition, and all the rest. Yes, procrastination, these words are a small gift to you, a token of gratitude for keeping me in a state of, well, in a state of something, until now. Now I am ready and I'm glad to embark on my own journey. I might have been too scared before, but you, procrastination, you kept me from having to face that fear until I was strong enough. Now I know you might not believe it but I am ready. I am ready to structure my thoughts, to tell a story that might not ever be read, to take my days and nights and any moment I see fit, and continue the pursuit of a goal that will take guts, tears, and more. I'm ready to face the truth of my heart and soul. I'm already doing it. I'm living honestly, with fear and confidence, in the known and unknown. Now I'm ready to write the story, to write a story of a man who is learning.

As I began reading a good book by the heater earlier, after the shower and before I decided to write, I couldn't get through more than a page without having to put it down and write my own ideas on scraps of paper. Maybe I'm not a writer. Maybe I'm not going to write more than one story. But I am going to write this story. Maybe I will let go of labels, let go of sickness and health, of education and wealth, and just be. Perhaps that is what I want to write, a story about why most of what we know matters less than what we really need. Even needs can be argued. Food, water, shelter, love? What if you had to pick one and let go of the rest? Could love feed us and quench thirst? Could the body live on water and food alone, without love? Isn't love the only real shelter? These are the questions that feed my mind and drive my fingers. It's time to take this seriously. This passion is demanding I notice it. Yes, I'll write. And yes, I'll wait for sleep if I need to keep writing. Yes, I'll do what I must to remain focused while knowing that passion isn't a passing feeling but an emotion kept at the ready for whenever I decide it is needed. Is this a creative burst? Well, if it is, it's because I say so.

I am compelled to continue this journey, the story of living life, but I have reached a point where it's time to write it down, whatever I've learned or realized, it's time to write that story. So many people believe in me. So many knew this would happen. Not me, though. I just started believing. Before it was talk, and now I know. Being something isn't always a choice. We are who we are. Some of us do what we must, what our hearts tell us, and others wish they could. I'm not letting pride get in the way. This is not an ego dance. I do not desire anything but love and the completion of this story. That, at this point in my life, is what I need. I'll tell you why I worry, why I know that things are not ok a lot of the time, and hope that it helps. This story only gained worth in my mind when I realized that I needed to write it down because telling it made others wonder, feel strength, or become reassured that life isn't one sided. I've been able to talk and make people think. I've made many mistakes. I'm blessed to have had these moments. They may end. No one might read my words, but I'll write them. For me, for my family. For the ones who have doubted themselves and waited for death only to wait long enough that they feel the first moments of life, I'll write for them.

As the story builds, my life will change and all that I've already done may be worth nothing. But worth is a choice. Writing is worth my time. Sitting around bored, reading books and writing my own is worth it. I'll call my potential employer today and ask if they have made any progress with my application, but there's a reason I haven't yet. There's a reason I sent in one copy of my resume to one employer. The reason, maybe, is that I've got better things to do than get a job. I've got enough money to buy food, if eating is a need, and I've got love. Love has given me time. The story of love, the story of my love for the woman that I love, has given me this time to write it all down. She loves me, and I love her. We both know that this story must be written. My friends are close by and they would never let me starve. My family and I have not connected as much, but things are changing rapidly. A new brother, a new sister in law, a new step in the evolution of a family. Yet some are not happy, some of the people that I love back home worry too much and they're too busy to cry about it. I'm going to write for them. I'm going to sit here and click black keys with white letters on them. Yes, me and my college degree, my climbing debt and with the immediate end of the cash flow in sight. I'll just sit here and click keys because I know it is worth it. Even if these words do nothing but carry me through to the next day, they're doing their job. After all, words are just that - words.

But words save. Words change and grow. Words can help and hurt. Let's see what my words can do. Let's see if I can keep this up. Let's see if this is the final goodbye, for a while, to that jolly fat man named procrastination, the one who feeds me cookies and makes me run to the bathroom every time I have a good idea, the guy who knows just when to make my arm itch or my lips desire a cigarette. He knows just when to throw in some other thought or desire, to keep me from doing what I must. Well I don't smoke anymore. There's no more weed. I've watched all the movies, and there's no way I could have to go the the bathroom again. Wait, I think I do need to, real quick, wait, what was I saying? Ha. Nice try Procrastination, you beautiful feeling. It's already happened. There's nothing left to stop. I've begun. It's time to get to work.