Writing every day is difficult. Actually, I can make that sentence better; writing is difficult—no matter the frequency.
As I sit at my computer each night, I dodge the ever-increasing fastballs of things that I don’t want to write about. The things that keep kicking against the locked trunk where I’ve stuffed them; the things I bury six feet under the girl who writes about candy-colored lipstick, striped dresses, and the perfect camel-colored motorcycle jacket.
I lose stretches of time – whole weekends and federal holidays — to daydreams, trying to avoid these things (and maybe people) that (who) sit at the edge of my periphery. The things that if confronted head-on might result in something I’m not prepared to deal with.
That probably sounds deeper than I mean for it to. Honestly, there isn’t much that I am prepared to deal with these days. Not dinner for one each night, or what to do this Thanksgiving weekend, or how to keep being the responsible person in my life , or what the terms faith and absolute surrender even mean.
The things I don’t want to write about are legion and starting to affect my sleep so in an effort to get some rest, I’ll list some of them:
6) Like the fact that I’ve finally forgotten your phone– a serious landmark in our (almost) forgotten history. It only took me half a decade to do that. I still remember the zip code though (757), but not what comes after. It’s a bit like falling off a cliff — the sure footing of the remaining seven numbers is no longer there to catch me. Yours and the twin’s numbers were the only ones I even knew by heart. (Such an apt expression, isn’t it? My remembering your number had little to do with my stellar memory and everything to do with my heart). I knew it for so long that it was embarrassing to still remember something so integral to you when I don’t think you remembered anything about me at all.
5) I’ve got to do something else with my life—this is not working. And by this, I mean that if I never have to say the words “Fresh Water Wash Down,” “Zone inspection,” anything about “angle irons” and things being stuck in them, or “_____ is dirty, let’s clean!” again, I might be a happier person.
4) I have nothing to complain about, yet so many complaints
3) Why is Germany so far from America? Seriously, why aren’t we neighbor countries already? Can we get Pangea back? Would it matter? Why can I only speak about you in questions? And why do I know deep-down in the place that I can’t write about, that if I could walk across a connected supercontinent to get to you, it wouldn’t make any of this any clearer?
2) I run away. Figuratively and literally. Every two years the Navy sends me somewhere new and it’s not a coincidence that it’s always far away from wherever I was. I can’t get far enough from whatever I am running from.
1) The hardest thing to not write about might be: what I want. The things I want could fill a canyon, or overflow a heart, or be gathered in the palm of my hand. But I can’t bring myself to write about them because what if they didn’t come true? Except I said wants not wishes. Maybe there is no difference.