Another week gone and here I am again. True, I don’t feel as dreadful as I had this time last week, especially regarding physical aspects, but I’m still misaligned. Terribly so, I might say, but I might be a liar. But this isn’t new. The only part that was truly new in almost half a year, or much longer really, is understanding the root. The cause, or what have you.
If there is a such thing as tragedy, it would have to be that it took this long. For you see, as much abuse as I’ve tossed my own way the past seven days, and many before that (although I know I promised that I would try to fix that, and I am, I’m just a slow learner), an admission was made that should have been made a very, very long time ago. Oh! To be in a galaxy far, far away. But since I am without a time machine, or any kind of sonically driven tool, or a British accent for that matter- I will have to make do. So stuck in time, in gym shorts, in America, I will do what I can.
It’s a tricky thing, wanting to a be a writer, especially of good fiction. I can only speak for myself here, but a story without struggle and hurt, is no story worth reading. And although I only speak for myself, I figure a few of you might agree. Now to understand good storytelling, you must live an interesting story, or so I have decided to go about it. However, there is a limit and there are lines that should be watched. To be a sadist regarding your fictional characters is one thing, but to be that way with someone you love in this real world of ours, is something totally different. Those lines and limits I was talking about? Yes, well, I’ve crossed them and am none to proud of it. Most recently especially.
If there is something that could be pulled from that, it would be the thousands of words I’ve added to the made up tale of a soon to be not so young man named Mitch. Some of you may have even met him. Now Mitch and I, we have our similarities, some would even say that we are one in the same and we almost are. The difference, I hope, is that Mitch is of fiction, whilst I am not. Also, I hope, that only Mitch realized where he had been going wrong, romantically specifically, far too late. I might be too late as well, but I can only say what’s going to happen to Mitch. I am, in a way, his god after all. But, to make the two of us the same again, even when faced with impossibilities, we shall try and try just the same. Be it in vain or achieve the aim, we shall try.
Before this day is done, Mitch will be thousands of words further. His story may even finish, in which case, if you’re are interested, let me know. You could give it a read and let me know what you think, if you’ve got the time. It will be rough and sloppy, much like having to date me, but I think it will be worth it in the end.
Oh! And poetry. I’ve written a good bit of poetry this week. It’s an interesting thing, poetry. I have been without it for too long and what a shame that is. I’m glad to have it back but less than glad that my verse and prose is grim, where it used to be the opposite. The last time so much poetry was produced, the circumstance were much more grand. I also got some written for me, to me, which I must confess my friends, there isn’t a thing more wonderful in the world. I still have some of them, though such things can only prove to make me sad now. I hope to change that, but again, I can only speak to the future of Mitch.
But a week can be long, as this one had been. A lot can happen in a week, as happened for me during this one. I don’t know what the next one will bring, but I know what I’ll try to do with it. Failure is, as it almost always, the worst thing that could happen. And since I’m already there in a good few senses, what is there to be afraid of? I’m not a total failure, of course. I just want to be a more total success. I used to be closer to that but hindsight, much like insomnia, is a bitch.