A mosquito is biting me, but I decide to write instead of killing it.
There's always this dilemma of wanting to write but finding plenty of good reasons why it is absurd, a complete waste of time. Yet here I am writing about how writing can be absurd (please don't cry dedicated artsy writers).
I have the visibility wound, it's true. Every time I'm about to write, I can imagine someone on the other side of the screen thinking of me as this poor hopeless fellow who never gets it. How does this guy never understand that there is nothing out there? That people don't really care about his life and thoughts, that the only one that believes in him is his mother?
Today, I did a good thing, but I'm certain telling it in this writing will be just self-glorification, vanity, and patting my own back.
The mosquitoes fly around my ears with their annoying sounds, and I think I deserve better than this. I should be living in a penthouse with air conditioning and a pool, but instead, I am in the mattress that was previously used by crackheads without being a crackhead myself. I believe the resources are coming to me at full speed so I can quickly start changing my material situation to the perfect balance.
On the other hand I should be grateful of having a place to sleep as I was just yesterday walking the streets looking for one and I ran into a family of very cool people who took me in. The why I was back in the streets, I might refer to in the future.
Today, I found a cop was quite beautiful while she interrogated me for something I shouldn't speak of at the moment, either. I pictured that should we marry some day, it would be a very interesting plot twist in the romantic part of my story. Imagine that: the dirty hippie with a guitar and a cop in her tidy dress and gun to the waist. Is this even possible?
I don't know why I just wrote about marriage, but I keep feeling that she found our interaction quite awesome and felt it was a breeze of fresh air for her among the decay and falsehood of the city. It's like she felt something real and different, and she found I was trustworthy. I don't know, but feeling this confidence bestowed upon me just makes me feel something really good.
