I tend to enjoy indulging myself in cliches. In my kitchen, there’s a colorful calendar that has a motivating quote of the day. I admit, I tend to ignore it, but whenever I get the chance to read one, I appreciate how much of a cliche it is, and simultaneously understand why cliches are what they are.
“Live. Laugh. Love.”
“Keep calm and carry on.”
These have all been used past the point of their demise, yet they undoubtedly still stand true.
Every morning has started off with a sharp pain in my chest. I’d wake up, get ready to start my day, and come out to see my old car, twisted and crying in my driveway, waiting to get scrapped. It would remind me of the mistake I made, and of how I got to this point in my life. It was an infection in this open wound I have, and it was effectively spreading throughout my body. After almost thirty inches of snow, I woke up with anger, trying not to think about all the shoveling I’d have to do. But while I brushed my teeth I peeked out the window to see the untouched snow sparkle, and was met instead with the car, nearly consumed under a monstrous blanket of snow. It looked like a relic, an apocalyptic reminder of that scary cliche; the one about how meaningless man is compared to mother nature. It was quite literally, ice on my wound. I can’t say I’ve had an epiphany or anything, (the wound is still here) but I am definitely inspired.
For months, I have been yielding to a twisted predilection for inactivity. I would write all the time; poems, short stories, nonfiction… and now, it’s been nearly a year since I’ve truly felt pride in something I’ve produced. I have lost the fire that once burnt so strongly in my heart, and enough is enough. I’m starting this blog simply as a recollection of my time, for my use only. But, instead of keeping it private in a journal somewhere, I’d rather keep it online, in which anyone could interact and join me. I guess I just don’t want to look back on this and have to blow dust off of anything. I hate dust.