Brick

What a realization. I don’t believe in any of it, anymore.

… … …

 

Here, in Atlanta, in a $1,400 a month house, I woke up hopeful. I woke up with a lot on my mind but a very bright and vibrant sense of purpose. It felt like something was going okay. It felt like this was an okay run, this life, and I was keeping the pace.

 

Here, in Atlanta, at 11:45pm I feel violent in my defeat. I feel a sense of hopelessness that I can only compare with an actual character of mine. And that makes sense. I spent much of today wishing I could disappear, evaporating slowly into the air, and turn into that character forever. I spent much of today wishing I was someone else completely, someone who could not exist without making hundreds and hundreds of ancestors, thousands of other people. I spent much of today and yesterday and all the days before it wishing I could exist in the world I made in my head.

 

It’s not going away, I guess. Every road I walk down leads to a wall. And this isn’t something that bothers me. Even my characters, even the one I wish I was, even they are surrounded by walls and closed doors. Even they squeeze their heads between their hands and seethe, whimper, whine. But they are not me. That’s the only difference.

 

I realized today that I will always want to be someone else. That will never change. I will never enjoy this life in a concrete way. And it sunk in a bit more than usual. I’m not exactly burdened by it.

 

I wonder what it means in the long run, though. I wonder when I’ll hit a brick wall that really stops me. That even my characters can’t help me escape.

Experience

The experience of life is not all about other humans.

They’re a big part of it. Most of your daydreams, and my daydreams, are going to be full of conversations. Sitting quietly with another human, all those long talks and robust hang out sessions catching up. There’s going to be a lot of discussion, a lot of just being, and a lot of failure and success in companionship.

But the other part of life is solitude. A garden early in the morning or too late at night, the sun fading away or brimming and spreading. It’s going to be about the violence in your head, the dreams of nothing but air and madness, the voices if you have them.

It’s going to be about the colors. The sounds of an animal panting to keep up with you (hopefully a pet). The thoughts that ruin your day or make your night.

Life is about those moments when there’s nothing around but you and the air you breathe. The plants that watch you. The chaos on the horizon.

I don’t think about life with others as much as I think about life away. Burrowed in a home that is too disconnected to be feasibly safe. Too on the outskirts to be classified as part of this human thing we do.

I’ve lived the part of my life where companionship ruled. I’m ready to see the rest.

Morning Pt. 1

Getting ready for a work meeting, trying to find a place in the house where Urijah isn’t screaming. His screams entertain me – he’s seriously entertained by every and any thing and he squeals and jumps and rolls. This kid is a kid if there ever was one.

But I have to work. And work means quiet. So – attic it is.

I’m going to try and make more of an effort to write something every day. To reflect. To read. To talk and mumble and waltz around my house. I’ve got this gorgeous round, rotating couch that Tai and her fiance got me. And I’ve got the beautiful red futon my mom got me. And I’ve got this huge, king-sized Vera Wang bed that Tai’s fiance got me. So I have a bunch of places to reflect, to sit, to think.

Meeting’s starting. Gotta go, bros.