A person may think people never change, but then that person changes, and this changes everything.
Four years ago I commited myself to the idea that I would eventually attempt to write a book, and in every ‘inspired to write’ moment since, I have waited and longed for a moment of clarity to come, a time where I would feel justified to start writing. I suppose I was holding out for something fabulous, or horrifying to happen, something that would make the words I wrote, worth reading about. But, that moment never came. Feeling disapointed in myself, I turned to poetry, and rather then writing about my own life, I would draw on the lives of others whom I had encountered, people that seemed to be far more “raw” then myself, individuals whose lives held depth and substance that fabulously exceeded my own. In writing about the lives of my muses, in the first person, I used selected perspectives that I figured would fit nicely and neatly into their given situations. These perspectives I assumed to be my own; they were not. Keeping each piece short, and heavily coating them all with metaphors, I gave barely any of them beginnings or endings. I did all of this one hundred percent on purpose, in an attempt to avoid having to face or deal with the fact that I did not understand anything that I was writing about, I did not understand, because none of it was my own. I knew that while the words seemed to fit in the sentences, they were weightless and meant nothing. As a friend described to me, they were “robotic”, and even I’ll admit that most of them were specifically chosen for effect. Yet still, with every published blog entry, note book passage, or papernapkin note, I prayed to everything or anything that I hoped to be listening, that one day I would accidentally find myself in the words that I was using to write about other people. I felt that after it happened, in that moment I would know that I would be ready, that I would be able to start.
But like I said, that moment of clarity never came. However, a beginning did, and while I always assumed it would surface out of clarity, it rather fell in from confusion. It came on a morning where I boarded the wrong bus, and had to travel in an hour long circle in the wrong direction, to end exactly where I began. I was heavily intoxicated still from the night before, and because I was exhausted I gave my mind more freedom then usually permitted. At some point over the course of the hour, I had managed to convince myself to start writing. Even if that meant starting from nowhere. I promised myself that I would write honestly, and while for the rest of the bus ride I secretly and melodramtically wished we would crash, die and I could just not follow through, we never did. And so when I got home, I sat in front of my computer, and began to write. I began to write about honestly nothing, I began to write nothing but honesty. I started with an unrelated quote to motivate myself, and followed with “Four years ago I commited myself to the idea that I would eventually attempt to write a book”. While I have set goals, I have never actually made a promise to myself before and I am terrified to fail. But regardless I am starting from nowhere, comfortable or not, and suppose there could be worse things,
afterall nowhere could always be pronounced as now-here.This is me. These are the stories from an uninteresting heart.