I guess they call this burnout. Three beers, a conversation with a friend, and an hour later, I found myself in that rather interesting position of having no story to write. Nothing, zero, nada, zilch.
Another beer. Another cigarette lit on the way home. I feel the need to just break down, to let it all go. I want every frustration I have against myself and what I do to just evaporate, sublimate, annihilate itself. For the first time in my life, just because of some noble end I know I cannot live up to, I just wanted to just let it all end. It’s not like my whole life will revolve around one workshop or one chance or one opportunity… but it felt that way. It meant – and it means – so much to me to make it to that workshop.
I guess I’m desperate, looking for answers and stories from the bottom of a brown bottle, and the burnt end of a cigarette filter. Somewhere in here, somewhere in this decrepit mess of things, there must be a story. There must be something to be told. There must be words to put together. There must be something – anything, everything – to the chaos, to the randomness, that can be committed into words.
I’m free for the night. Everything has been postponed. I have all the freedom to write what I want, to do what I want. Somehow, I just can’t. The goal is to create something out of nothing, like every form of writing there is. Then again, when you put nothing and nothing together, there’s really much nothing you can do. No words, no sentences, no paragraph, no essays. Rather than face myself with an embarrassing and blank Microsoft Word document, I’m facing my blog to – once again – scream into my empty paper cup.
