It’s 7pm and I’ve been home for two hours and I haven’t taken off my work boots or clothes. I cut on the air, grabbed a beer and sat at my laptop to write. That was two hours ago, time flies when I’m sitting at this screen. But it’s not just at this screen when time flies.
This is the 9th month of the year. That means we only have three months left. I’ve said this before but this is the first time I’ve probably meant it. This year has went by incredibly fast. I’ve never felt this unproductive in my life.
My writing hasn’t progressed as I would have liked. I’m no closer to a wife or a son or even a relationship I can go into 2013 counting on. And even as I write this I’m quite drunk and the sun is still up. Sometimes I’m afraid for myself.
That sounds weird right? Afraid for myself but it’s the truth. I’m afraid that I’m losing control of the man I want to be, of the plans I had for myself. I’ve been so careful in life, so calculated. Treating people right, following the rules as to not be a statistic and on days like this I realize it could all be for not.
My heart tells me I’m a great writer, my mind tells me writers are a dime a dozen. We argue a lot and usually it’s my mind that wins because reality is reality. I think if I had someone rubbing my shoulders or kissing my cheek telling me everything would be okay I would be okay. But you’re not here! YOU’RE JUST NOT HERE! For the last three or four years I’ve though you would come, I’ve thought you’d save me from myself but that’s not the case.
I thought I would have fallen in love with you by now but I think I’m starting to hate you.
I’m starting to hate you because you haven’t came in and done what I thought you would do for me.