I delude myself with the promise that things will improve just as soon as I can get my psoriasis under control, or my home furnishings in place or even as soon as my erratic love life reaches some sense of normality. But, deep down, I know that is bullshit, lies that I feed myself so I can save myself from facing the truth. I’m not a writer, the spark has gone. That once genetically programmed ability to ‘zone out’ , to lose myself in the throes of wild imagination has disappeared into the ether.
How I envy others whom, amid chaos greater than my own, seemingly churn out ream after ream of brilliance. How would they feel if they knew that my heart sinks when I read their blogs and their flash fiction? How I envy their dedication to their craft, a craft that I lost in the frenzy of a rollercoaster existence. They know themselves whilst I can only seek, and fail, to reinvent myself over and over again. What shall I be today? A poet? An erotic siren? A comedienne? I can be any of these things in just one tweet but, when I switch off, I go back to being nothing, an unremarkable greyness clinging on the fringes of life.
The night means nothing to me. It is, as the day, just hours ticking away and when I finally climb the stairs, weary in body and soul, it is just a prelude to an equally weary descent.