I am scared when I write. I am afraid that no one will ever read what I have written or that no one really cares what I write. Is that what life is really about. Everyone for themselves, not really giving a damn what other people are doing, saying, thinking, suffering…? What do I really care about? I don’t care about them, I don’t really hear their words when they speak, on and on. They sound like a distant background music in a department store that I don’t really hear though I know it is there, playing its monotonous tone in the distance. I do wonder why I don’t hear them, I did once. I did care at one time in my life what happened in my acquaintances’ lives and their stories of everyday life and tragedies. I can’t help it. I don’t really care about it anymore. Who does? They don’t care about me. They don’t even know me, or ask me who I am what I need and why I am here. I would like to find out too, WHY am I here in this chaotic mess. I find this constant whirl a little exhausting. I do wish to shut it out and stand in darkness without noise. But, that will never happen.
So therefore, here I am. Sitting under the fan, whipping the cool air about me and tapping endlessly at the keyboard. I do hope what I am writing will be good and interesting and somewhat moving to someone. Maybe someone can relate, maybe someone will sit there, reading on the couch after a long days work and nod and smile in agreement to every word they have read of my own opinions and thoughts and maybe laugh out loud too. I can’t say my life is that interesting but it is definitely not boring, rather a little confusing to myself.
I close my laptop, it’s warmth feels comforting on my lap. I close my eyes and breath for a minute. What now? I shove the computer over on the couch and turn off the tv. Just another constant noise in my background to control. My eyes ach, dry and slightly swollen from staring at the screen. I think I’ll go to bed. It’s much better to think when not worn out.
I tried to do a writing class once. You know, the kind that you do through the mail, what’s it called? Correspondence course. I paid every penny and did I get even one assignment done? Nope. Not one. I will never become a writer. I will never…
Shut up!!! I am not normally pessimistic. I am what I call an optimistic passive pessimist. If that makes any sort of sense! Now a days, I force myself to think writing, see writing, live it, love it. That’s what you want to be when you grow up (I’m already 30 yrs old) then chop chop, move along already! I did publish a poem once, though I don’t think having to pay for a copy of the poetry book rather than get paid counts as really published. But, I guess I could always say it does.
Today is job hunting day. The miracle of computers, internet and wi-fi allows anyone to job shop on their own couch, in shorts and a t-shirt, with the tv on. I apply at several places, hoping my skills as a registered nurse will get me something. The only problem with my own career, is that there are openings, just not in my specialty, on day shift with my salary requirements. Of course you do have to worry too about the job really being a real posting. Some companies will post a job and give it to a person already working in the hospital that had been waiting for that position to open. So in essence, the position really doesn’t exist. I hope that is not the case today. I don’t have much money in my bank account to suffer that fate.