Prepping

Maybe if drinking actually helped or if reading was more engrossing lately or money was within my reach. Or perhaps it is a lack on my part. The skill is best suited for prose as I have honed it for years now. Reading prose and thinking about those moments in between the important life-changing moments.  Still, I would type up a story or two now and then, I could make sense of a day or two in which moments arise and gave meaning or proved there was no meaning.

Seems even that is hard to come by lately. When the great ones died, be that in riches like Bukowski or in ruins like Poe, they took with them a satisfaction; I have spent my life writing and the world has been witness and shall remain a witness to my work. Such feeling I fear I’ll never know. My best work is short and involves few descriptive details. I figured, people have their own ideas of the ocean, the colors and the clouds in the sky and all that. Why confine them to my ideas of nature?

 Despair has its allure, but hope is always near, causing such pain. Even this is an attempt. Every word I’ve typed so far is a mere exercise. This is me prepping to write stories again. So far I am unhappy with the flow and development of ideas. If this where a car running down a busy road, it would be making an awfully sounding clunking noise.