I Sit & I Write

(Art by Dave Correia)

Every day. Since January 22, 2003.

I sit and I write. I read. I rewrite. I read something else. I write something else. I keep doing this and doing this and doing this.

I have been writing so much for so long that I've lost more writing than I can remember or pull from storage.

Some days I write better than others. Most days I just write what I need to write to make it to the next day to write something else, something more.

I miss my life before writing, in certain ways. It was prelapsarian. It was before the recorded word. It was the BCE to my AD. I can imagine any number of things, any number of myths about who I was, why I was, how I was...

Once I started writing, I became unable to distort my lived experience. It was stark. It was unambiguously factual. It was lacking adornment to the point of emaciation. Before I could write I was a life full of adventure and magic. It was tragedy, it was comedy, it was drama. It was.

Now It simply is. My life, so easily categorized, cataloged, and codified into strings of characters reaching from January 22, 2003, until this day of November 25, 2017, exists in contrast so blinding I cannot properly see without the dark of 4 AM, sad songs on the radio, and a half-finished can of flat soda.

And I think. A lot. About this or about that. About stuff. About things that I fear to say, even in pixelated masturbatory self-flagellation deep among the echoes of cyberspace.

But, as long as I keep writing, I will reach the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that. Until, eventually, I've reached the last day.

When I can go back to the time I was nothing more than.