I'm trying. Seriously, I am. At least it feels like trying. I get up. I go to work. I stay at work and do my job. I try to take care of my wife, and my kid. I put my desires and hopes and dreams and aspirations on hold to try and give the one person whom I love just one of the things she's always wanted for her life (if not all; but let's face it, I'm a weak man and can't do very much). And she is beautiful and loves me for my efforts. This isn't about her. She's only part of me, the part that matters and makes the rest of the crap I go through in this confusing world make any kind of sense.
The point is: I try. And yet, I don't feel anything. I don't feel happy. Or sad. Or melancholy. Or whatever. I don't know a lot of words, so my lists are short. What I'm getting at, is that I feel like I'm running in sand towards somewhere I don't want to be. The dunes are high, and the sand is hot, but I have to keep going or else my feet will burn, skin will start peeling back from my muscles, and the vultures will circle around until they land on my still living face and peck the eyes right out of my skull. I have to move. And forward. No left. No right. No back. All forward. "Progress" I hear it called. By whom? I don't know. Does that really matter?
What matters are the incongruent emotions luchando in my stomach. No hearts or brains, it's all about guts. What I want. Not "love," or "facts" and "knowledge," but the deep, hidden, scary and exposing needs that are still not fulfilled, still unsatisfied. There is so much more than this. I hope.
I consider myself a writer. Scribbling, or typing, I write stories. The days are half spent in half dreams half finished half of the time. And if there is time, half of the half of the half gets put on the page, and lost in the megabytes of space on the computer. A professor once told me that we aren't "writers." He said: "When we write, we are writers." But when we sleep, we're sleepers. When we work, workers. Watching TV, watchers; wondering whether or not are bodies are going to collapses under the weight of ourselves, we are wonders. And it goes on to the infinite. We are the people we are as we do the things we do. That scares me. I'm not the -er that I need to be. I'm the -er that I think I should be, or have to be, the -er that will satisfy the social constructs enumerated by previous generations, supported by media and technology and business and capitalism. The -ers that make money; and support families; and send kids to college, and keep Top Ramen out of the cupboards so they can be filled with fancy croutons and expensive cereals.
Life's not about money, I know. I know I know I know. But I don't know; not really. What can we do without money? Living doesn't happen without money. I don't mean barely surviving, because people make it happen every day in the streets, and in impoverished countries. Billions of people. But just because some can do something, doesn't mean I want to do it. People are also sword swallowers and snake wranglers and rhythmic gymnasts. I don't want to do any of that. I want to write. And live. And create things like handmade books and beautifully strange sculptures and a sweet house.
So. I work. And when there's time, I try to write. But my mind is too muddled and dark. My eyes are heavy and I can't stay awake anymore. I sleep all the time when I'm home, or on the verge of sleep.
There is no time for living anymore. And I don't even work that much, but my mind is constantly consumed by what I haven't done yet for class, whether or not he students are understanding and learning anything about writing, am I doing this right, I can't be doing this right, I don't know anything about composition writing, I barely know anything about creative writing, what do I really have to share with these people, I'm only 28 after all and I haven't done anything significant with my life regarding career and money and being someone "important" in the world.
Anyway. I just want to write. And be happy. And make my wife happy. Is that too much to ask?