Somehow, in the time I quite smoking until now, I figured out that I 1.) have a voice and 2.) shouldn’t overthink everything into oblivion and stutter over my words when I try to maw them out. I used to think the smoking gave me edge, but it tuned me out (yes I know I could have used ‘dull’). I was so deep into ~my inner thoughts~ that I barely spoke, barely cared, and was barely there. Tuned out, see? Sober…ish, I can speak with the best of ’em, let me tell you. But what’s there to say? I’m not that interesting, or at least I don’t think I am. Currently, I’m trying to find meaning in my life on my own terms. Nothing big. Just absolute meaning to all existence. That’s all…
Writing is tough, especially when it’s your 9-5 gig, then your 5:30-10 gig. There’s not enough time away from the words to move ’em around and mold out a shitty story or two. I look at them and I’m like, “I haven’t eaten since 12:30”. Sometimes, to try and get myself into it, I look at different languages I never bothered to learn and think what I like about them. Such a shame that Algonquin is dying/dead – it was a good one. So far, it hasn’t worked for kà-kegò.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jaded. It’s just, ya know, you write upwards of 15 blog posts a day about the majesty of propane, or cremains, or the like – and it wears you down. I like my job. Jobs. They’re all fine. Just, just wish, ya know? More time in the day and all that. Ah well. There’ll be more time eventually. More lives. God knows I’ve already lived several.