Monday, October 3

Little Voice

It causes me to worry, this lack of writing. Even now, as I sit here with my fingers on the keys, I feel very little, unable to think of anything remarkable to describe or convey. I wonder if I am struggling, if I am forgetting my dream of being a writer. No one visits my blog anymore; no one reads this. I am just a little voice. What good is a writer if they cannot think of a thing to write. What if I just choose a sentence and lay it down: I am turbulent against the cold bright mornings. It means nothing, or maybe it means something. I don’t know. The fingers dance during periods. Last week I was content with doing nothing, at least not a drop of writing. A couple of beers while I played guitar, but that is all. I would eat and then lie down to inhibit digestion so that I will explode. I go to bed. I go to work. I have nothing to tell you, nothing to write down. I don’t exaggerate for the hell of it.
All those emperor penguins are about to get their treat of the year, as the sun glistens over the horizon and their chicks and they have survived. Meanwhile my days become shorter and it is cold again. How dare I be so happy that it is cold again! I sleep with the windows open and wake up cold. I enjoy waking up cold, it is such a pleasure. Dreams return. I dream more when I sleep coldly. I dreamed a dream the other night where I was with a girl I had not seen before; I was happy; we were happy; I woke up most sadly.
At least I am playing guitar.
At least I am painting.
At least I am reading.
More than anything I would like to write. Trading all of those to put down something in words at the end of the day would be more than welcomed.
There is a short story competition. The deadline is at the end of the month. The thirtieth of October stares at me. I would like to enter. Last year I made the final. Attending the ceremony felt so strange, although I had my friends with me. Walking away was strange; my writing had been judged.
There are women – yes, women! – who request my company but I am unhappy and shun them. I just wish to be alone for a while. How ridiculous that I should not meet them and enjoy their company if only for an evening. I would rather be alone. My flat is so cold; I enjoy it here and I paint and make loud music.
My mother and my brother’s fiancĂ©e bathe my niece and film it. They send me the video to cheer me up. My niece loves the bubbles. She screams—‘Bubbles!’ and rolls around in them. When she has the bubble beard on her face, they tell her she looks like me. She says my name. She says hello to me as though I am in the bathroom. For a moment I am happy. I watch the video again. When I go out drinking, I find a quiet corner and watch the video again. When I am alone in my cold flat I watch the video. I think about her growing old into the world and I weep. I weep a lot these days. I watch documentaries and I weep and I shake and it is all I am good for. When the documentary is over, I wish I had written. I have not written, but only wept. I go to bed. I go to work. My life continues, my little voice stifled.

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