Feeling bad, Feeling blue, Feeling sad, Feeling hopeless. When death comes around And Takes someone you know, You are reminded one more time That nobody will be here forever. We are only visiting This world of life, irony, Politics, anger, and frustration Temporarily. Look the truth in the eyes, Look your life in the eyes, Look inside of you, Who are you? What you are here for? Asking these questions again and again, Hoping there will be Another day tomorrow, For me And for you. I hope…
I started working on a novel back in late 2016. The novel is about an ordinary guy Johnny who is working as a salesman at a furniture store. He’s young and broke and trying to become somebody in this life. He meets a girl who comes to the store and they go out on a date and he falls in love with her. The problem is that they both are coming from different worlds and they are very different and incompatible people. The middle of the story is being written and the ending is in progress. There has to be a sad ending, I think. Maybe even a tragic one who knows?
There are a few other projects that I have in the works. Yeh, a few other novel ideas and a TV show are on my long-term writing list. I know that I will eventually get there but all I need is the time and a proper state of my mind. The timing thing is always the problem. There could be a lot of time but no passion for any writing or my mind would be in some weird place. Sometimes life gets in a way and there is no chance to write anything, sometimes I’d try to squeeze a thirty-minute to an hour to sit down and write something. That’s pretty much all you need as a writer. Just sit the fuck down and write.
I love to write early in the morning. I do find early morning hours the best to write because there is nothing else to do and likely nobody will bother you. A lot of times, I open my laptop and start writing just about anything. It could be the most random writing ever. I rarely know what will come up once the words start filling the page. Then one page fills up there might be two pages and three and so on. Writing is not about the pages. It is about mastership of releasing your thoughts and emotions on the page making the reader live your writing, feel your writing and want to read more. Writing is like a therapy for a writer. When you are all alone, processing your thoughts, building your ideas as they come to you one after another and transforming them into sentences, the magic happens. Eventually, you’ll get something out of your system and you’ll feel great about yourself afterward, even if your writing wasn’t that good. There is also a sense of accomplishment that will give you a lot of energy and will for sure lift your writing sprits up.
At 30 not working full-time anymore, No more jobs, morning commutes, cubicles, Useless conversations in the kitchen during lunch breaks, No more annoying coworkers, no more boss, no more job security.
Lost the passion for life and My path to a professional career. Lost the passion for success in life. Everything is dark and strange everywhere.
Drinking my wine, listening to some old records, The music by the dead people brings back The memories of the life I have never been around for. Trying to write my first novel, composing a book of poetry, Short stories collection, trying to write something, Anything.
I’ve been fired twice this year from my career jobs, My shit’s out of luck, my luck is out of shit. I don’t know if there is any more sense To play the game and feed the system. Fuck the system I say, fuck the office, the job, Security, 401K, the boss, the manager and the rest of it.
I am tired of trying to become somebody I’d hate. I am tired of wasting the best years of my life, my prime time, My prime health for a fucking paycheck and recognition. I am tired to do things that bore me, do dull things that kill me, Things that slowly kill a living soul inside me.
Bukowski wrote “go all the way” and he did, and he made it. I will go all the way and I will try to make it on my own, I’ll live for my dream, living the dream. Living the life of an artist while others enslave themselves Working and slowly dying at these soul-crushing jobs, Trying to build a career, save for the retirement, Put the kids through college, live by a budget, Feed their families, pay off their cars and mortgages.
When will we have the time to live our lives in peace and harmony?
I am sitting here in my room, listening to some old jazz music, Pouring the wine into my glass until full and Waiting for my muse to come…
