Well Do You

Well Do You
by Christopher R. Myers

 

I don't write enough, because I never make time to do so. I write and edit and rewrite in my head until I either hate what my mind has been working on or I'm satisfied with how I've completed inside me and that in the moment seems good enough to act as if I've done something.

As if I've done anything.

And then when I do try and make amends toward a better schedule or speak to myself on how this is a problem that I have to work beyond , I always wind up down on myself. Hard on myself. Kicking myself like I'm a bad dog that deserves a bruised rib or more. The whole of myself became wrapped and unwrapped in some identity as a thinker and writer and romantic poet before I was ever even old enough to have understood my identity as a human. I've never been paid to write one sentence and it's difficult to act like that is a slight against me by the world, because it isn't like I ever tried to get paid. Hell, there was more than a few years that I never had the wherewithal to put thought to action and even slap a word on anything. On the same token It isn't as if I was ever taught or knew HOW to go about getting paid to write.

I fucked up everything.

I let myself go to the brink of disaster and beyond and when I woke up from an oblivion I had hoped for, the world had moved on without me.

Do I even remember how to write? Is it something one forgets?

You were never taught how to write. You're tantamount to a high school drop out with the way you took school, and your great decision to act homeless in your hometown for nearly six years.

 

I shouldn't allow myself to talk to me like that, but it's not exactly a total lie. Like I said, I fucked up.

Found a bottle, a lighter, a pack of smokes, and a multiverse of mind expanding, life altering, existence collapsing, reality contracting drugs at the bottom of a well and made plans to drown In It All.

 

Not sure how many times I felt like I was going to die there. No lies, I had to have come close to not waking up more than once. And now. Here in the aftermath of it all after I've dusted off what few bits of who I was, before it all went to shit, collected what wasn't burned up or unrecognizable and set it neatly on shelves all around me, I take stock of what matters and how to keep moving forward in a world that isn't built to see me as human any more. In a world that moved on.

When you live to extract oneself from the culture, and you attain that in some small way for a number of years, it becomes a fight to be recognized as part of the herd ever again. Not that I want to be part of the herd. Just, sometimes, I wish I hadn't opened my mind so wide through years of psychedelics abuse that I can't even hang out with the rest of people.

If you've never dedicated a significant portion of your life to wandering around parking lots in a failing suburb snow-blind and drunk in the heat of another swampy Texas summer, watching the sunrise crest the broken highways and abandoned strip malls just as the third wave of LSD reignites your system, grinding your teeth on a thought until the local PD tells you to move along, and you find yourself baking under a pool table just hoping something bites you or that heat stroke won't hurt as much as it already feels it does, but god damn it where is the guy with the FUCKIGN STUFF MAN! You said he'd be here an hour AGO!

Then it is difficult for me to see you as anything other than absolutely foreign to me.

The trouble is, in a world of these people, I'm the alien tourist around here.

I don't know how to write for them.

Hell, I don't know how to write for me.

To be honest I'm not sure if either of those are things that matter, because in the end the question isn't “Do You Know How to Write For Someone”

Do You Know How To Write For anything?

Do You Know How To Write?

Do You Know To Write?

Do You Write?

Well,

Do You?

 

I'm trying Ringo; I'm trying real real hard.

So, from today and to that end I am posting as many words as I can muster a day. My goal of word count will remain unstated, but no matter if I achieve that goal or not it WILL be placed online and pushed to everyone it can be.

And if this resonates with you in some way, if you're a writer who lost your pen, and your mind, but are trying real real hard to make your way back. Join the fun. Just do it for you.

#HalfMadWriterGuild