.Working on it dude.
That’s what I’m doing now. Staring at the computer, working on trying to write again. Things are not as good as they could be. I’m thinking that some circuits are blown in my skull. I think something has fried and now I’m unable to do anything. I can’t write myself out of this hole that I’m in, and therefore, I’m trapped like a fly in amber, or a bird without wings. This is not a good feeling. It’s like all of your dreams are being dashed every day that you get up and look at the computer and find that you can’t do shit to add or subtract from the work you are doing.
That’s what really hurts. The fact that you have a novel to write, with characters waiting to be added to and you can’t do a damn thing but stare at a screen and watch a cursor flash. It’s called writer’s block. It’s when your thoughts can’t do anything other than bunch up together and do nothing. You can’t see anything in your mind’s eye. The movie of your novel is not playing in your head, so there is nothing you can do about it but stare off into space at a white screen, with just the words you have written before hearing about your father’s death.
And that's what makes me wonder. Am I giving up? Am I hoping that I end up on the streets again because I am not fighting? Have I given up on life because I’ve lost my father? Is it that he was so important to me that I don’t want to live on without him? Could I be so weak, or maybe so much in love, that his death has stunned me more than I know?
I say this because I have not shed a tear for him yet. I have not cried, or even felt pain. I miss him slightly, but not enough to be moved. I’m glad he’s at rest because he was in such discom- fort. I got a chance to see him before he died and I told him I loved him. I wrote him love letters and he knew to his grave that I cared and respected him. I never had an argument with him, never had a disagreement that I feel remorse for. I always loved him even during the worst of times with him, and that was when I was homeless and he disowned me for a year. When he re-owned me, we picked up from where we left off, still loving each other.
So, maybe, just maybe, my inability to write is my way of mourning his passing. I was hot and heavy on this story before he perished, and now I can’t seem to write a single word for myself. I can’t do a thing, and so because of this, I’m doomed. The problem is that my writing has been my lifeline. It’s been my strong fiber. It’s been my escape clause. It’s been where I’ve tied up all of my hopes and dreams for survival. Writing was my way of getting out of this mess that I’m in. Drawing money from something that I loved doing. Writing.
But instead, my abilities to write have been extin- guished and well, that’s it. There goes all my hopes and dreams. And this room, this room, has changed from a transitional existence to that of a prison cell with no end in sight. That does not feel good. Especially when you know you could do this. You know you can succeed in writing your way out of your intended doom. There was a time that I was not afraid...but now. Now I feel fear. I fear that I can’t and will never escape this hole, and that soon, Social Services will yank the carpet out from under me and the other shoe will fall and I will be back out on the streets. I’m really not looking forward to that shit.
I had always hoped to leave the streets an author, victorious and making my father proud of me in the process. I wanted to return to him, triumphant. And now, unless he is staring down at me from the heavens, which I really don’t think so, he’ll never see me succeed. And maybe because of this cold, hard fact, maybe I no longer wish to succeed. Maybe I wish I will not succeed so I’ve fallen on my ass and will not move, like my psyche has become a stubborn mule, unable to do work. Who knows if I can ever kick start it again. Maybe I need something greater to fight and win for. Maybe I need something or someone to win the game of life for other than myself.
Because if I don’t, then where in the fuck will I end up in the long run? Huh?
Maybe back on the streets with my brethren, the Skeksies. Maybe I can live for them? Survive for them? Or be like them once more. When Social Services drops the other shoe. Fuck Social Services. I know what I’m not....and that’s a Skek. No matter how much Social Services would like me to be one. Social Services can go to hell and lick my asshole all the way there.
I know what I am, dammit. I’m an author. It’ll just take me a little more time.
Just a little more time.
Hobobob
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