Writer’s Notebook: The only relationship you need to cultivate is between you and the page

Posted: September 17, 2015 in graffiti living
Tags: , ,

“Though death is howling at our backs and life is roaring at our faces, we can just begin to write, simply begin to write what we have to say”

There is one relationship that you need to cultivate and that’s between you and the page. Fuck everything else.

I’m lonely, I’m afraid, and I don’t think I’ll be around for much longer. I’m also tired and in a lot of pain. I also think sometimes that [REDACTED] is going to commit suicide. And emotion aside, what annoys me is that I’m somewhere on that path myself, so don’t you fucking dare. And yet every time I open my mouth or my keys to say something, it comes out like this, rather than true to what I think or feel. I fall into patterns that sound right or at least sound right to me, rather than any truth. I’m lonely and I’m afraid.

I feel like I forgot decades ago how to tell stories. I also suspect sometimes that my first rush of truth when I was little and said I wanted to direct films was more true than the sensible option that came after, that I wanted to write novels. Because truth is I watch films but don’t read so much, my eyes are fucked, and I always prefer listening to stories. 

And yet what is true or untrue anyway.

Here I am — sometimes forgetting that I’m sick, and yet, the pain is back and it is fucking killing me. And my 35th birthday is coming up and I don’t even know how to spend it, and I don’t actually have anyone to spend it with.  Spending your birthdays alone seems to be part of getting old for me. There is something seriously missing from me and I don’t know what. 

But I’m also annoyed with other people for being like fucking robots. And then others for not knowing when to mind their own fucking business. I spend most of my time surrounded by strangers, and I want to knife them out of existence – not in the literal sense, I mean that I want to be gone for the situation where we are living in the same space.

I want to spend my time with less and less people.
The only relationship you need to cultivate is between you and the page. It’s a lonely existence but that’s the truth of it.  And yet what happened to my stories, my muses, my life?  YOU LIED TO ME AND YOU LEFT ME BROKEN. And here I fucking am. Close to the end and still breathing for some apparent fucking reason.

*I wrote this over three years ago. All I’m doing is sharing unedited pages from my notebooks. Please only comment with this in mind.


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