I’ve decided I want to blog more. Rather than just thinking about doing it, I’m starting now. I will be posting on this blog once a day / once a week for all of 2011.
I know it won’t be easy, but it might be fun, inspiring, awesome and wonderful. Therefore I’m promising to make use of The DailyPost, and the community of other bloggers with similar goals, to help me along the way, including asking for help when I need it and encouraging others when I can.
If you already read my blog, I hope you’ll encourage me with comments and likes, and good will along the way
I tried to hold on, I really did. Waking up, and running here to this page only showed me something I knew quite well. The blank white space matching the insides of my brain. The thoughts as empty as the dreams I had for my future. I wanted what I saw to be real, to be put down and documented so I can say it existed but instead I sit here, attempting to grab sunlight with my hand and finding it fruitless.
I see flashes of smiles and one shot of me crying. About what? I dont know, except the tears came from deep within, feeding of the years of stored up sadness.
Just small flashes of tears and smiles. Kind of like my past. Nothing makes sense except that perhaps I have dreamt all my life.
It makes no sense to those who have met me in the last 10 years. They just know the Jovial, card playing, hard-drinking Sanjay who is a lawyer but doest practice, has a great family business and has no real need to work. It makes no sense to them that I want to write. Actually, it’s not really a want, it has become more a need. With my recent stroke and the travails of my girlfriends disease, it has become the only place I can be really true to myself.
It’s in those 30 to 45 minutes that I can really hear myself talking and thinking. Everything drowns away and it’s just me and the words. In that time, I am neither happy, nor sad just a writer with his tools trying to make sense of the world around him.
That is why I write: to live, to breathe, to feel, to just be.
The words just sit there. The guilt sits behind them. Yet nothing moves. I plead with the clock to slow down, to let me gather whatever’s lying around so I do not feel like a fraud. Yet nothing comes. It is as if I am spent from fighting the cancer in my beloved, and while the movie reel in my head sputters along, the projection screen is blank.
I can’t stop thinking of writing, and seeing every conversation as potential dialogue. It’s as if my body is become one huge receptacle for ideas and possible stories. Yet I want it to stop. I feel like Scott Summers from the Xmen, unless I put some glasses on, I can’t stop the lasers from destroying the world near m me.
Just stop, I beg regretting ever having starting this muse yet it grows just like the enemy in my love. Her body betrayed her and now I feel like my mind is doing the same. The words keep growing and I pray they don’t spread to my hands because I need the energy and the strength to by her side.
I want nothing except for her. She is my life. Without her, I am just another person, but together we become one unit that can take on the world. But we have been let down by our bodies, hers turning against her and making her wonder what she did to deserve this and mine seeing everything as a reason to write.
But both of us are wrong. All we is the present and blame worry sadness don’t belong because the reality is we will both survive, one as a writer and one as former cancer patient. That is our new reality. It doesn’t take anything away from us, it just has made us a thousand times stronger.
While we will kill one cancer, we will allow another one to spread so it can kill the doubts worries and sadness in others. In hindsight, maybe being an X Man, isn’t such a bad thing.
I have a need to be read so I know I exist. These are my words, and I need to share them. Too long, they have gone silent, and worst of all ignored by me. I had convinced myself that writing was enough, just like breathing. But after a while, you need more than air to live. Life isn’t just a series of breathing exercises yet for a while that’s how I treated my life. Something I just had to do. No vision. No motivation. Just passing of the day and really just being lucky enough to be around people who loved me for existing and providing me with everything.
So why am I whining because I know I am a fraud. I know that the words coming here now are just so simple and don’t even come close to the poetry in my head. It used to be so easy and now I am lazy and dull. I stopped listening and hearing what the words were trying to tell. So now I just sit here, listening to amazing religious songs with a cold cup of coffee trying to convince myself at 38 that this is what I want to be. Yet every moment feels forced, made up just so I can say I wrote.
I am a writer. It’s what I tell myself when I wake up every morning, and the first strokes of the words comes easy. Yet after a minutes, I find myself tweeting/emailing/posting/reading/searching/paying bills all throughout the precious time I have managed to find to write. It’s as if my body is telling me to get real and go back to my superficial life. And I oblige. That’s the sad part. I know I am failing myself and yet somehow I still continue on the path.
I am a fraud, but at least I know it. And knowing is half the battle, Gi Joe reminds me. But wait, I feel like a fraud but does that really make me one? It’s the question that nags at me. Who am I, really? Am I the thoughts in my head or am I to be defined by actions? What is it about slamming these letters down that makes me feel like a light weight heavy lifter? Is it the guilt that the joy I felt when I first learned to transform my thoughts into reality seems buried, muffled underneath the chorus of doubt and guilt? Or is it just not meant to be?
Should I remain a fraud or for once be the man I said I wanted to be?
I don’t know when it came, but suddenly guilt was my constant companion because I hadn’t sat in front of her. instead of being ignored, she now constantly spoke in my head, demanding no begging for my attention. The old excuses no internet access or let me sleep in for more minutes no longer satiate anyone especially her. Instead, it’s a constant dread what I wont get down. Now, the worry is what words will be lost, and what seemed to be useless now seems priceless. Each day used to carry the thought of just getting through and living, but now feels empty if I dont manage to splash some thoughts on the blog canvas. What didn’t enter my mind now permeates my being.
