7-8-08 continued

"I told myself there was time. Of course, that's what we always tell ourselves, isn't it? We can't imagine time running out and God punishes us for what we can't imagine." - Stephen King, Duma Key, p. 346

There's always time. Isn't that right? Not 40 yet. Still a few months to go. And 40 is young, right? Plenty of time to start writing again, to get back into the game. Sure there is. Just keep telling myself that and like verbal morphine, the itch inside, the burn - the piece of me that has screamed and shouted and demanded to be heard ever since I was a kid will settle down and relax. Nice slap - shut up and sit down. Plenty of time. Kill the urge. Kill the moment. Verbal morphine. Sedate the itch. Quench the burn. Plenty of time, man.

Plenty of time.

Distractions abound with writing and mindless interaction on the internet. It feels important for the moment but the moment passes, doesn't it? It always passes and whatever it was I spent time on suddenly seems unimportant - maybe even foolish. Empty. Nonsensical.

But yeah. I still go back.

Never mind the books or short stories. Never mind even the Blog I started with the intent to count down to my final years before I hit 40. So much has gone down already this year - so much missed. Is it even worth reflecting, trying to match events with dates / days? Or maybe just the fact that I'm recounting some of the serious bullshit that I do day in and day out - stuff even my wife most likely doesn't believe - then again, I'm sure she doesn't want to know most of what I do. And that's OK.

What I do is a slice of life she doesn't understand and it would likely break her heart if she ever knew some of the intimate details. Especially when it comes to the kids.

She couldn't handle the kids. And she probably wouldn't be able to handle it if she knew I sometimes cried about the kids that came in.

Gotta go catch a train...

- I've had writer's block for several years. Not horrendous, mind you - I can usually pop out a story here and there but the book writing has all but dried up. It's my fault, as I laid out in this passage. I spend too much time not writing and not enough time writing. It really is that simple.

The second piece of the above most likely has to do with a kid I took care of that day but obviously, I didn't get into specifics which is probably a good thing. Abuse (verbal, physical and sexual), removing kids from the home, broken lives, broken people. Whatever. Something must have got under my skin that day. I wonder what it was.

Oh, and I see in my notebook that someone at the bar (Clarke's) recommended I read Brett Easton Ellis's Rules of Attraction. I haven't read it yet.