It’s hard to write when you’re on a bus, holding a notebook in your lap.
It’s hard to write when you’re so tired that you can barely keep your eyes open and your brain feels like it’s melting.
It’s hard to write when you feel like you have nothing to say, or at least nothing new.
It’s hard to write when you’re not feeling well and your hand is shaking as you hold the pen or type.
It’s hard to write when you’re in a noisy and dark bar.
It’s hard to write when someone’s watching over your shoulder.
And, apparently, it’s hard to write when you’re on vacation and spending precious time with people you rarely see.
She stared around with her currently dull, sleepy eyes. She saw everyone around her, but also seemed to see through them, see their intentions. They all stared eagerly ahead, so intent on understanding, so intent on impressing, on seeing who was knowledgeable and who wasn’t. Eager, all so eager. She slowly shifted her gaze over them all. Why are they acting like this? She thought. What do they gain from it?
She was presently struck again with how much her grief distorted her perspective and views on life. Nothing seemed so important anymore. As long as you keep living, even in total numbness, what does it matter what your future holds? What does it even matter what the present holds? What’s the use of striving to greatness or even comfortable mediocrity? She didn’t care what would happen in her life anymore, as long as she kept living somehow.
This sprang to my mind at work today, and I quickly wrote down the words on my little pad of paper that I carry in my bag everywhere. Dramatic, perhaps, and quite depressing to tell the truth, but I just started thinking about writing this, so I did. I will resume my usual nonsensical posts on the morrow.