Wasted nights

I’m drunk on stupidity.

A drunken man falling over himself because he couldn’t keep control is no different in alcohol than any other vice, simply less graceful.

Sabotage, gluttony, self-pity and the constant distraction from the unknown, they each hold their price and conspire together to trip me up.  I fall for it every time too.

I’ve spent precious moments banging my head against the wall rather than coloring in the cracks to make it less obscene.  Now I’m trying to save face by being pretentious and this is all garbage.

I can write.  I know damn well I can write.

She made me love her.  I didn’t want to, but I ended up doing it out of stubbornness.  She tricked me.  She told me she never wanted someone, she wanted everyone.  My ego caused me to take the challenge to be all of it for her.  And I was, for a short while.  I was until I wasn’t, but it stayed deep inside of me.  The time that I was couldn’t be expelled because her magic was too strong and it wrapped itself in the chords of my soul.  I can still feel them being plucked by her fingers.

So fuck it all.  Fuck the night.  Fuck the stupidity.  Fuck the distractions.  Most importantly, fuck myself for letting it all get in the way.

Too may wasted nights are spent banging my head against the wall.  The cracks should be vibrantly colored by now.

My writing history

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a very long time, yet I was never encouraged or surrounded by any kind of artistic mindset.  I’ve never had artistic friends or relatives.  There has never been a community I’ve been involved in that had a creative outlook on life.  It’s why I love San Francisco so much, the free-spirited mindset of the people that live there, maybe not as much anymore but the essence is still there.

I remember when I was around 11 or 12 and seeing my mom’s computer in her bedroom, this was a very old computer that didn’t really do anything but hold word documents.  My mom read a lot of romance novels, I’m assuming as an escape from the mundane existence of every day life.  They were the recess peanut butter cups of literature.  I don’t recall what she had written on her computer but it was in the form of a story.  I believe she was attempting to write her own, although I never asked for confirmation because if she’s anything like me she would be mortified to know someone read her unfinished works even if they don’t remember anything from it.  But knowing she had a drive too, however faint or strong it might have been, makes me a little more motivated to push further.

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