Sometimes I think I lack imagination, that I’m too caught up with reality, too caught up with knowing how to live the right way. I day dream to an extent, I wonder, I fantasize, but I have no imagination, no talent for creation. I look at Toufi’s art and it’s surreal, fascinating, complicated, imaginative and beyond my understanding. I read my previous posts and I think, Gee, you are so full of shit, pardon my French. You write in verses, trying to be deep, trying to go beyond yourself, trying so hard to write the everyday life in such a beautiful, poetic verse that is not even real anymore. I used to think I was big back when I was 15. I used to think I’d get published and have a book by the age of 19. I used to think I was great. I used to think I could make up a story, bring fiction to life. I didn’t think it would be nearly impossible with my lack of imagination.
I never get tired of writing. But somehow I feel like my pen is dying. I feel like I’m a child who pities and whines and finds life dull. I feel like I’m not living fully because my writing has become one big, messy garbage with a bit of icing on top, a kind that makes it shallow and pretentious.
I like realities. Sometimes I get mad at the person who made me like them. I wish I had a creative side, a story of sorts.
I sit here in the dark while they sleep and I think to myself, God, you need to write, you need to because you are getting wasted. You are lying here on the couch, wasting away, failing to see the world around you, the way you used to see the world with your damn sense of honesty, the way you used to talk about freedom and moving to the great America and how it made you great. You are failing to speak from the heart because your heart isn’t talking anymore, because you are wrapped up in something bizarre that you don’t even know about, because you want someone to hand you a set of instructions and say, here is where you go next. You think you are a good writer, and deep down you secretly believe you might even be great, but you wake up and you realize the pen is dead, the page is unwritten, and coffee cups and cigarettes are getting way too redundant. You realize that, in fact, you are not living at all, you are just sadly wishing you were so you could tell the world, hey I know how to live. But the truth is, you are still a coward because you never did anything out of your limits, you scrutinized yourself so well and learned to take every easy path. You avoided every highway because you were too cautious to speed. You avoided a get-together because you were afraid of being the only stranger. You avoided certain atmospheres because people didn’t know you. You avoided everything you wrote about; you wrote about everything to make yourself feel confident and brave. But in the end, it was just a load of crap and you knew it…
It’s getting late. Toufi is asleep. My eyes are getting weary. I’m thinking I should go back to therapy once I get back in August…Then again, the only one who can help me is sadly, me.
Until a later time when I feel rejuvenated by the mere fact of existence,