And so it begins, with a chair and writing equipment…
I haven’t written anything. I haven’t. It is pitiful I know. I can number a great amount of excuses. I can even bring in not being able to get up in the morning with a motivation, being very busy and spent by the end of the day, spending most of the time I do have eating to pass the time and then regretting having eaten so much, feeling sick and hating myself just a little for having given myself to gluttony, but not calling it that, simply eating nonstop without giving myself a chance to stand up and realize my stomach is stretching desperately to hold it all in.
I won’t, that’s what whiners do, self involved little twerps, emo kids… I am not an emo kid. I am a man, master of my life. I am strong and positive minded. My mind is a key player in the universe to bring about whatever my inner self desires; my outlook is always what the universe needs in exchange. I have the power to make this day the day of my life. I take what comes and make beauty out of it. Give me work and I will give you revenue to the point work will not, at least for others, be a must. Give me poverty and I’ll give you a feast from the infinity that lives within the crusts of bread, leaving those crusts as charity for the needy outside. Give me sadness and I’ll unravel it until you see the inherent joy that is within, then I’ll take that to heart and share it to others and with the remains of it beat the evil spirits that say I can’t.
The writer—as in writing person and not current profession—stared proudly at his very short text, cherishing having exposed his acquired bits of worldly and trendy wisdom mingled with truth while still rather enjoying his effortless state of being that kept him from writing any further. And so he left the chair. A bit more pensive, a little gayer, not given in to anything that wouldn’t be after him in the first place—though maybe not quite standing his ground; or maybe again, doing so a little for the first time in a while.