Holy hell, September 11 is the last time I updated?
I do apologize to my fans out there.
Gag, spit and let's try this again.
So I've got the apartment, I've got the girl, I've got the job, I've got the roommate with the wicked recipe for crab cakes and an appreciation for music and beer.
Now I need the dog, need the time
need the money and the will to rhyme.
I'm starting to itch again. I've been in a place for a year, some new surprises to keep me on my toes and stressed to a bearable point. But then I look at the lives of others, the financial and intellectual side, and wonder where I fucked up.
I can feel myself grow older, lazier, still easily cowed by others. I think I've learned some new ways of coping, of releasing my own little bits of karma and spite. All in all, things are well, and I am enjoying myself. At least from five till bedtime.
I want to write a beautiful poem, an enticing story, a work of art again. Or maybe they were never works of art. Maybe I am becoming smarter, clouded less by my childish mind.
But is that really what I want?
I wish I could take pride in the way my fingers glide over the keys. The way thoughts can spill out through the fingers and onto the screens to slip through the translucent tissues of your eyes. But I want to be able to make people feel through my writing again. I want to be able to push the imagery, to make them see the shadows play along the grass and hear the laughter bubbling on the breeze, but I think I've lost that.
Or it's not the same audience.
The experiences might not match up.
Shift.
The wanderlust is rampant in my head today. I found a picture of a woman strapped in to a snowboard, carving the face of a dune. This picture led me to the site of a man who has been travelling the east for four years, with a myriad of pictures and tales.
(But nothing of his past except pieces you have to pull together yourself.)
Just up and left his job as a banker, went on to be a photographer with a 6x6 Land Rover, a Moroccan wife, two children, and pictures that instill in me the greatest desire to just see that I have ever felt.
(Not that I'm wanting to leave things behind.)
But he had a skill to fall back on. An Artistic talent. I could quit my job and start travelling. But I'd have nothing to support me. Nothing that could be done without settling down and faking my way through shit.
And that bothers me. What a waste of a human fucking being.
It seems everyone else has a talent. Musical, Singing, Dancing, Painting, Photography, Socializing, Craftwork, anything. Everyone I know has something they can do well. Exceptionally well. Well enough that if they truly pursued it, they could excel beyond what they would have ever thought possible.
I talk with people often. Botanists, Chemists, Doctors, Master Electricians, Professors, Specialists. People doing well. People I have always talked with and regarded as friends.
And I think to myself "Fucking hell, I'm the god damn dullard of the group, aren't I?"
Nothing to be set aside by.
Fucking aggravating. Some things we're born with. Others, well, I guess I just refuse to learn.
I get my dog soon.
I get my fight.
I get a story to remember.
And then what?
Fucking depressing. I'll write more as it comes to me. Thank you, and check out the link below.
www.thisfabtrek.com
