Weird, innit, how we live our lives. Like they’re not really our own. At least, not the parts we live out loud.
I mean, there’s the stuff we read in books and then there’s our own stuff. Movies are other than us and what we see (that’s not been made by anyone else) is our own.
I don’t expect you to understand. I’m living this. You’re not. You have your own stuff (obviously). If you do understand then you’re probably me.
Do you ever read stuff that you wrote a while ago and not remember writing it? Or feeling like that?
Someone said that the past is some other place that we don’t recognise ever having been in (or something like that). I think that’s deep. Kinda. It’s as if our insides (our memories) are pickled. Preserved.
I used to talk to people as if I’d never met them. As if they were virtual strangers. Drove the wife frickin’ crazy. She’d be, like, why yuh talkin’ to me like dah! I’d laugh and ask her who she imagined she was? We never really know ourselves and so what chance do we have with other people’s black boxes.
Table cloths are … but I slip off the subject.
People … no, not people … me. I’m not living a real life. I watch movies, listen to music and read books and imagine that the stuff I absorb that way is real. It’s not. It’s not my life. If you take all that stuff away then I … well, I’m not really sure what I’d do all day. I’d be an empty void. I’d be a cup with ten-day-old coffee dregs echoing around in my depths. And cups aren’t deep. Do you get me?
I should try it one day, right? Put away my books, plug my ears with birdsong and watch the sun arc across the sky. Perhaps I could even try talking to people. Try to get to know them. Heck, I could even try talking to myself. Not like this. When I do it this way (in writing) I have half an eye on you and only a quarter on me. (Most of the rest is thinking about the void.)
I suspect that most of the enjoyment I get from life is tied up with pulling stuff in rather than putting stuff out. That’s actually why I started writing. In (about) 2015 I recognised that I was consuming rather than creating. So I created more. And it worked for a while. But now … now my creativity occupies a boxed-off corner of my world. Writing’s just become another thing to tick off a list. Sad, really.
I should (but will I?) unleash the writer (the creator) that is me and let him go wild. I should let him consume all the time in the world (or the day). Let him consume all my time so that I have none left for consuming movies, books & music.
Let me sit and sadly contemplate that thought.
Just a beat longer.