I am depressed. I have lived an intense life as a free man. Free from all the constraints of society. Free from my own fears. I've lived like I've wanted to live. I'm torn. I want to tell the story but there are so many stories and all except perhaps a few forgotten by the passing of time. Most of these stories buried beneath the sands of time, under the oceans, under the flow of lava, lost to mother nature's whims, her outbursts against humanity for the crimes we have committed against her. It's down right frightening that we have spent this time on earth and have very little to show for it. What happened to our dreams, our castles our toys our children and even our madness?
I'm so afraid to write about my life. In the end there is so little to say, maybe a few million words, maybe just a sentence or two or maybe we end up with a blank piece of paper that can only be used to white balance a camera or make a paper plane from.
Can I write about my childhood in the middle of a world war? can I write about the oppression of being a good family man? Can I write about being a mad publisher fearless of what I publish? Can I write about the American police state and the effects on human dignity? Can I write about prison? Can I write about sex and all it's wonderful perversions? There's more, a lot more.
No, right now I can't but as I get closer to the end of the days of my life I will, I surely will write something. How about you? Will you dare to write about your boring life?
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1 comment:
Max, please, don't stop writing. Write down anything and everything, for sometimes it's in the silly unimportant details that we humans connect...
Don't forget your laundry-truck story. ;)
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