Tonight I Don’t FEEL Like Writing, but I DO

Tonight I don’t feel like writing, but I do, because there is nothing else. I hope that in some way it will give this day meaning.  I have trawled through lists of films on subscription television looking for something that will restore my faith in my own life.  I choose several and change my mind repeatedly until I settle on a film about a man restoring a boat.

It is one of those nights where it all seems to be a pointless repetition.  This night has happened in precisely the same was before only I am wearing a different top and my hair has grown.  Perhaps a glass of wine will give me some kind of pleasure after a hard week’s work but it was not really hard at all, it was just something that I did, and that I will do again and again and again.

Drifting around thrift stores today, the oldest furniture always gives me the most comfort.  Numerous books purchased at three for a pound.  The hope that in one of them will be a clue to all the questions I desperately need answered.  At my temporary home, I lay in bed and am lost for two hours and one hundred pages in a strange novel that makes me laugh out loud at a protagonist as perplexed as I am at the absurdity of it all but who is able to express it with a great deal more wit and a naughty use of CAPITALISATION that excites me.  Awoken from my reverie by a sister with work problems, I forget the book and go downstairs to watch the film.  Surprisingly, in a way I cannot explain, I do find meaning in a shot of water, lights, shadow and a grainy green blue twilight.  Without knowing why, that image makes more sense to me than anything else that has happened today.

I cannot wait to rid the house of people so that I can be lonely, so I drop them off.  When they are gone I feel better.  It is much easier to be alone when there are no people around.  Tomorrow will be better, I know, because it is ok to be alone on a Sunday.  I will be glad I chose not to drown my loneliness in wine to wake up shaking, ill and still alone.  Tomorrow I will be able to say that I had a lovely quiet weekend and I feel much better for it, and I will be so convincing, I will believe it myself.  Even now I feel better because it is late.  It is only in the few hours of a Saturday night when it is still possible to do something that I feel afraid I am wasting my life doing nothing.  However I have not done nothing all day, I have spent all day with a dear friend, shopping in charity stores and having lunch; flirting with the half Italian, half Argentinian waiter with the dark eyes and long eye lashes who smiled at me.  It felt good to be appreciated by a dark man with a foreign accent, but he was too small and too eager.  We ate pizza and ice cream and I got a leather jacket for ten pounds and six books for five.  It really was a nice day, but tonight that does not matter anymore.

I will forgive you for thinking me melancholy or worse, but I do not think I really am, at times I am just really unsure that there is not something I am missing, that I should be doing something other than what I am doing.

Tomorrow I will no longer feel like this.  Tomorrow I will walk in the country and I will look around myself and know I am doing exactly what I should be doing.  However walking for ever in the country is not really an option or I suspect the answer and I cannot just sit at the ocean all day every day staring at the sea and the sky.

Perhaps I could say it feels right when I am writing, but really writing often does not feel like anything.  It as though when I write, I forfeit my experience of time and my awareness of being alive.  Perhaps that is why it feels so right afterwards.  It is like meditating, although I never truly lose myself meditating the way I do when I am writing.

Now that I have written, even just this couple of pages, I no longer feel like my night has been wasted, even if no one ever reads this.  I do not know why that is.  I write a lot these days, really, I do not know what I would do otherwise.  Well maybe I have an idea.  I would perhaps have concentrated on saving money when I got back and went travelling again.  Or, perhaps I would spend the time going out with my friends instead, I could meet some guy who mostly likely will not be the right person at the right time, but I would fall for him anyway because I would find meaning in love.  I would be happy for a time until I realise that there is no meaning in love without meaning in self and unless I am pursuing something creative I will not feel self worth and the poor guy would never be able to fill the gaping hole  no matter how hard he tried and I would have a breakdown and leave, breaking both our hearts. I would realise that this normal life is not for me, travel to the other side of the world on my own searching for meaning and find a story. Wait ……




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