The first of many confessionals

Quarter 4, 2013

My hands, once full of energy and vision, have grayed and become dry with soap and coffee grinds.  The black uniform hat limits my thoughts and dulls them down to mind-numbing routine. My feet haven’t explored new territory, only the tiles behind the counter and the pavement in the parking lot. I watch the sunset from behind a decal clad glass. I dream on my breaks and dangerously behind the wheel during rush hour.

When did I lose my spark? When my feet touched on the tarmac from a summer in the clouds? Or when I felt the vines of reality trapping me in a reality that I know belongs to another? The cause isn’t as important as the effect: the aches, the sudden blank pages… my head spirals between recipes and komodo dragons and road rage and outer space.

I think I’ve lost my purpose, you see. Somewhere amongst the first handshake of my employer and my first pair of non-slip shoes, I fucked myself over and fell into the pitfall of America: miserable routine and bills. Both unavoidable, one easily fixable, yet much easier said than done.  I’m bigger than this reality: the espressos and arguments and insomnias. Yet, the hunger in my gut is fading.

Am I giving up? Where is my fight? Lost to a register that constantly taps me in the gut, mocking me for being too close to riches I think I can’t have? Or is it tucked in the trunk of the car that I’ve messed up by traveling to this hell I call “work”?

I shouldn’t be proud of finding solace in the shower, but the hot water rids me of the failures I feel, even if it’s just for twenty minutes. It burns my back sometimes, retrieving me from numbness, and the cool tiles hold my head up during the moments I feel like I’m about to slip down the drain with the suds.  I know there are signs everywhere, with inspiration around the corner and all that jazz, but my fingers are frozen wide with fear and it flows through to someone with more heart and a baseball glove ready to catch it.

That’s the problem, I’ve realized. It’s the Fear.

I’m afraid.

I’m so fucking afraid. I’m afraid to obtain what I really want because failure sounds like a fatal shot to the face. I’m afraid that I’ve gone to school for nothing. That what I desire in this life is too much and it will always just plague my dreams. I’m afraid that I won’t be happy when I grow into old age, forever lying in bed at night, thinking about what could’ve been and why heartache is so real. That my parents’ sacrifices will end up in vain and that I’ve wasted their time. That, suddenly, I’m not worthy of anything I have and I deserve this headache, this aggression I feel towards everything.

When did I become such a coward? When did I become too proud to cry, yet too afraid to even write down a bucket list of what I really need to feel complete? Strong enough to be a shoulder for everyone to lean on, but suddenly growing flimsy when I to give myself the same speech. Who am I anymore? When will I find myself again and destroy this barrier I’ve stupidly created for myself? I want the future so bad; I can picture all the outcomes and see all the possible success it brings.

… I wonder if anyone else felt this chest-rattling during their self-evolution.  

ZM.

Intro

He told me, "Don't keep talking about it. Do it. If you just talk, it's just bullshit."

Here I am, two weeks later, finally building enough backbone to start an intro to my semi-secret obsession.

  I don't really have an explanation for why I've been hiding the fact that I write almost every day. It's not because I'm ashamed of this skill, or because I don't think my work is good enough. This was just one of those things that I wanted to keep close to myself, but now I feel that the real fun and challenge is in sharing and allowing others to take a look into what I think about on the daily basis. 

 There's something intimate about having alternate worlds spinning in your head with characters traversing and living in these worlds that you've made up. They're based off of your heart, your daily experiences, your dreams of the future and the "What ifs" that we all have at the end of the day. You feel pleasure when their lives come together, their worlds hit changes that life brings, their endings sporadic and not always complete. I used to think that people wouldn't really understand how these creations could come to be over things as simple as daily objects, but now that I'm older I've realized that even though people may not understand the full process, they can still respect the end result.

As a writer, if I can feel pleasure and entertainment by sitting and putting a pen to paper, why not allow others to read and hopefully get the same feeling? You don't really know unless you try and I'm ready to begin the adventure.

With that being said, welcome into my little project of courage.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoy writing them.

Z.