What am I?

First I need to start with the obvious: I’m a human being. I’m a male with white skin. I’m a writer…right? I tell myself this every day, awaiting a moment when the statement isn’t followed by a question mark.

Writing is difficult. Writing 3–5 days a week is grueling. Writing every day seems impossible. Each and every night I will open my notebook, write down the date and stare at a blank page with an empty mind. I know I want to write anything, I know I need to write something, but I feel like doing nothing.

I ponder everything — all possible problems and potential projects — and I overload. I reach the level where information and incidents overwhelm me to unbearable exhaustion, then I freeze up. What I want to write, what I need to write and what I feel like writing will be completely different, so I decide to write about nothing.

I gaze at my reflection in the window and wonder if I’m even a writer. I wonder why I selected this tedious task as my projected profession. I wonder who inspired me or suggested I should scribble nonsense. I wonder where my work will take me. I wonder when my writing will inspire others. I wonder what I am…I am a writer, self-taught and classically trained by those in the nonfiction genre.

My concentration in this category has had benefits, but this particular focus also has downsides, for I am admittedly dull. Many interesting things have occurred around me and the people I know, but these intriguing affairs are needles in a haystack of boring bullshit. I constantly comb my pile with a magnet, reaching for events that exhilarate and excite, but typically I remember mundane mush.

The mind-boggling moments slip away from my psyche and I am left with the humble husk of a once stimulating something. I have made many terrible decisions for no reason other than sheer boredom, and I have hurt many nice people in the process. I don’t regret the choices I’ve made, for each fuck-up has taught me about myself and the world around me, but I cringe when I consider the pain I have caused due to simple restlessness.

A smart writer turns to fiction in times of numbness, utilizing authentic happenings and infinite imagination to create amazing art. I am not a smart writer, even if I have multiple fantasies and innumerable inventions at my disposal. I surrender to excessive options and elect to stay safe in my known nonfiction neck.

I am a writer, even if I don’t feel like writing. I am devoted, even if I do nothing. I am artistic, even if my work is dreary. I am a vessel for unlimited abstractions, even if I currently choose comfort over creativity. Even when I’m not swimming I am going with the flow.