Written June 2019
He thought he was a good writer, at one point. He wrote of love and war, though he had never engaged in an armed conflict with any human being. He had also written of alternate realities, dreaming up what life would be like if the Confederates won or a French baker had left just in time to avoid Hitler’s occupation of France. But now, he felt empty when he sat at the computer or with a pen and paper. Although he aimed to write, especially now with so many more experiences (still no war), there was either emptiness or a swell of ideas so overwhelming, he felt like he was on an island paradise watching a tsunami approaching ever quickly. Drinking sometimes helped, but only to return to his old ways, the absolutely unhealthy ways.
But he would sit in his underwear and a neon green t-shirt and read one of his old pieces. Memories would flood and he rambled about the old days: old love, college life, lives he had never lived. There are college collections: sleeping with a friend (literally), post-Senate shenanigans, lost love. Now, only broken connections and a loneliness that is partially self induced and equally provided by such a small town. Karaoke night wasn’t great. But the Allen’s is back, a bittersweet reintroduction between old friends. He is ashamed to have bought it at the IGA, unable to stop himself. He hesitated putting it in the fridge. He paused opening it. He stammered a “fuck me” as he poured it. But drinking it! AHHHHHHH! That is refreshing. He ignores the thought of weight gain and reads another old piece he once wrote.
There are at least a hundred pieces in his story folder. Some are finished; most are not. He once tried to finish a piece, it resulted in a homicide…in the story. He thinks of writing the next new-gen Western or redoing an old screenplay he had. There is hope, but opening up the document will stop his fingers from moving, from typing. He reads another story, seemingly ancient and not written by himself.