I never really put in enough thought, or spent any time finding the perfect word or the ideal pace. Enough people have said that I am a great writer, only occasionally missing the point.
Right now, as my head rests heavy without rest, I don't feel like that great writer, who amazed the bars and spoke of sincerity combined with profanity. I don't feel as if the pen belongs in my left hand or the stacks of notebooks are worth anything more than an hour of heat outside in the cold.
I think hard and heavy about my surroundings; how the people waste away never earning enough money to live, but earning just enough so as not to quit. Everyone has a hand around another's throat.
I have written with myself in mind and with myself as the topic of my writing. This is no different to slamming a fist in the face of the innocent due to impulse, or taking a country to war for personal wealth.
With only the 'Denial of Death' sitting open at the end of the preface and a sunken brow I think about packing it in: Until I live more I have nothing left to write.
'I may be gone for a short while,' and once again I turn the tables to myself. Writing as if I capture importance, when in reality, I merely offer the few readers myself, captured by myself.
Life seems to be phases upon phases upon phases. From music to prose, to alcohol, to poetry, to now,
where the cold air outside weaves its way around us and we grow sullen; full of questions that can't be answered until we forget them.
This is no time to attack the poets or the obese child sat among her obese family with a bucket of chicken each and two hours of prime time television. A brief realisation it may be, but right now it seems that I have done no more than them: I am not fighting against poisons, I merely pen my opinion as if it is worthy of your consideration.
And so, until I have gained something new or lost something I didn't think I could be without, I must rest my pen next to a pile of books that I plan to read in order to gain something whilst I lose something I didn't think I could be without.
For a while, perhaps until I become just like my father is now I have lost it.