We’ve all written any number of things.
Half-assed replies , awkward text messages, high school essays ,angst-ridden poems, secrets scrawled on crumpled bits of paper , the occasionally terrible letter to a man in a leather chair , and let’s be honest, we’ve all secretly wished we’d written a decent love letter or two, but never really got the chance. And right now I’m watching the clock creep forward in this dismal looking bedroom with the hazy glow of 4PM and let me assure you, the whole thing is entirely unromantic. I’m just trying to give you some spiel here, an attempt to come across as dark and charismatic. Though I’m not too sure how it’s going to work, seeing as this dreary and boring day is just that – dreary and boring. Quite morbid actually.
I made a sort of pact with myself this morning, about how I wouldn’t philosophize or romanticize or try to be intellectual. Because quite frankly I’m not intellectual ,though I think at a point I wanted to be . But this all sounds very rich coming from somebody who’s trying to produce half-decent words on a page - words that aren’t very coherent or meaningful , words that don’t lead anybody anywhere , that don’t have a purpose or an ending or substance. I suppose the whole thing reads like a severely flawed and absurd novel. Very pretentious, very rare , very horrid.
I think I began with the intention to reflect upon the little,irrelevant pieces of writing that hold our lives together , something about the words we churn out of our systems on a daily basis . From my experience I know that these are usually utter bullshit , and I guess I would have gone on to comment about how sometimes something brilliant comes along , but it doesn’t ,and that’s just one of those things I like to think when I have too much time on my hands.
What I really want is to make all this boring stuff accidentally very special , so I pick out details like the way the sun is spilling out of the window , and how cold my toes are , and how there’s something very romantic about a dirty ash-tray that’s full to the brim.
And now I’m suddenly walking down the street, a small and empty street … I’d rather not say where , because that would involve a story I don’t know how to tell very well yet. But I’m walking , and I just want to go around and look at things, even though I’m not supposed to . I don’t know why that is , but I’m not. And there’s music playing somewhere , and it’s suddenly so cold , and I want to cry because I don’t have lights on tall buildings and all those things that make you wonder. I have this. I have stale coffee and cheap cigarettes , a long line of sick dis-satisfactions and half-shit worries.