In twelve hours or so I’m going to be 34. That’s such an uneventful age when you think about it but it’s also the halfway point of your life. The average life span of a male is something like 64 so I’m almost literally at midlife.
It’s quiet in here, it’s usually always quiet here. Twelve hours before I turn 34 and the silence feels louder, I’m afraid I haven’t accomplished enough. I’m afraid that the silence is a foreshadow for what’s to come.
I saw online today this guy post that he was going downtown to see the Super Bowl festivities with his father. They were in matching Eagles clothes and I thought it was corny and then I realized I want that same corniness.
Not having a father didn’t force me to be a thug, it didn’t make me want to have a bunch of children I knew I wasn’t ready for. But it did something just as damaging. It made me angry and that anger led to this life of seclusion. For me everything is always black and white, you’re either for me or against me. Forgiveness is for weak people. Where has that gotten me 12 hours from 34?
My birthday is falling on Super Bowl weekend. I’m supposed to be out with friends and making memorable moments but instead I’m at my desk writing novels that could possibly suck. Drinking more than I used to because when words are your only friend you need some other form of comfort.
When I was younger I used to think that the only way I could be a successful writer was by being sad. I read so many books about talented, self-destructive people. Books about how that hurt is the motivation behind the story. Now I realize it’s not the only way but there’s a reason the darkest moments bring out such raw emotion.
I can’t live the second half of my life like I’ve lived the first. I won’t survive it if I do. I need more. Sometimes that means looking inside of yourself and realizing what you need to do to find the happiness that eludes you.