It is different, it is profound. You speak as if you know everything and nothing at the same time. You speak as if you are the human race trapped in time and space. The words fill the page but they have no real meaning. Because truly words have no meaning other than the ones that we give them. A book like a list of words is lost on those and anyone who reads them will little concern. A story is nothing more than a beginning, middle, and an end. You travel with and against the story as if you have something to say. But as I listen I quickly realize there was nothing there at all.
This is the story. These bits and piece lost between the big words. The nothingness of it all is all you are trying to say. As I watch the cigarette burn down to ash. As I watch the thought escape my head in between everything I’ve said and everything I have not. A thought crosses my mind. A profound and different existence on a lost plane of suffering. But is this life? Is this the truth that every great writer is trying to say?
Nothing matters when everything is said and done. Your words have no meaning as mine don’t here and now. History spreads their lies in order to prove that we must survive. We’ve faced much worse yet look we are still here. We’ve said much worse yet we are still fine. They say actions and words have consequences, but they are only temporary. So say as you please, do as you will. If religion is truth then nothing you say or do was your choice. A running theme and I wonder why? Puppets of a story with no time and place. The world rattles out of control. Yet you stand right in place. As “God” has intended you stand right in space…
It has been three years since I finished my last novel. The time and space seems like forever ago, but the feelings and emotions still feel fresh. Every new day is a mixture of past experiences and freshly served shit. Life keeps piling it on whether I hide in the corners or throw myself into the mix. Years have pasted yet I feel the same. I still smoke too much, drink even more, and waste my time as if I have more to burn.
Ten years ago I was sixteen and ten years ago I still had much of the same dreams. Ten years from now it will be the same. Only time and depression will change. If ten years from now I am where I am today what would have been the point of all of this? My thoughts are worthless yet I value them at a high price. I believe one day my thoughts will hold enough meaning to warrant me money for nothing, but they are only thoughts. Thoughts that no one gives a shit about. My point of view must be worthless in the end because they are all the same. “Sorry but you are not what we are looking for right now.”
Isn’t that the point? Shouldn’t You be looking to the future? If this, what I say is not “in,” isn’t that what you look for? Taking a chance on me could pay off. I might be the next big thing. In the end, I might be the greatest, but I’m not stupid. The rejections state that I am good, but really I am not. They mean to say give up. They mean to say you are an untalented, pathetic writer that no one cares about. Direct quote for my headstone.
The words used to motivate me because I thought they meant that I just wasn’t there yet. Lies I told myself to keep going. Lies that used to inspire now only hurt. They are little paper cuts across my face and hands. Little scars filled with poison. Little losses destroying what’s left of a heart that was already broken. I’m becoming more damned every day. Becoming normal in every way. I want to give up, but what’s the use? I’ll still feel the same as I did yesterday.