I’m sitting here, contemplating what exactly I need to write. I need to write. I need to sort things and explain things and produce things, I need my mind to bear fruit. I’m just at an impasse with what the hell I need to say. I do sometimes feel like I’ve already said everything, but I’m also keenly aware of the fact that my life is nowhere near any sort of end. It’s already far too soon to say I have no words left to write. I suppose this post itself stands as antithesis to the entire concept. It’s kind of a nothing-burger of a post, but it’s still written word. It’s still conveying an idea, or an absence of ideas. It’s a conveyance, to say the least.
The minutiae just pierces every inch of thought like so much shrapnel flying through my head. I don’t know. I’m tired. I’ve been doing this life thing for a good while now. Sometimes it feels as though I was born tired. I can remember this feeling in my childhood. It wasn’t a reaction to hard playing or length days of excitement. It would tinge every morning, follow every afternoon, and lull me to sleep every night. It’s a familiar feeling, to say the least. My earliest memories of this kind of tired were gathered in the library of my elementary school, where I met my best friend. I remember those times being a sort of turning point in the tiredness, where it abated for a while. When my dad died I would sort of stop talking for a while. I guess I didn’t feel like I had much to say, or maybe I felt like I shouldn’t say anything. I really don’t have a lot of recollection from those days, but I do recall clearly that the school thought I might benefit from being put in the library around other kids and free to engage them as I saw fit, or not. I think it worked pretty well, and I picked up a life-long friend as well.
It always reminds me of the fog that the chief lived in at the beginning of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I sometimes feel like I live in that fog, in his fog. He wouldn’t speak, either. And it can definitely feel like a fog.
I don’t know. The days are long. For I have eaten ashes like bread, and mingled my drink with weeping.