No. 642

panic cycle

This is post number six hundred forty-two here at

And it’s been a longer than anticipated absence since post number six hundred forty-one.

Sorry about that.

I haven’t written in more than a year.  And while it could be convenient to say much has happened – nothing has.

For that I take full blame.


I miss the creation days.  The days lazily typing in a coffee shop, a pastry reward for a solid, editable five hundred words.  The nights spent living and listening for exactly what a character sounds like, looks like, feels life at the end of a bar or back of a car or among a crowd of those who forgot that life meant something, somewhere, some time ago.  And, perhaps, that kindred spirit who still believes in something, separated from cynicism, and willing to take that chance, whatever it may be.

Instead I’ve found narrowed comfort in a numbing nine-to-five, grocery shopping, and a bottle of wine in front of whatever will stream to my living room television, alone to glance at the two-dimensional characters someone else created.  I don’t find jealousy – no, it’s much worse – just apathy.  A lack of interest in the creative, a dearth of considered analysis in a sea of knowledge, and, sadly, diminishing drive to get up, get out, and work at something that one incessantly teased and taunted me.

And that scares the fuck outta me.  The world is spinning faster and faster each day, and I’ve pushed myself outside the whirling dervish and into false comfort.  I should be in the middle, documenting with my own eyes, ears, and experience.

This is post no. 642, fresh with resolve to roll the dice and see where this takes me again.  Perhaps faked until it’s truly made.  But it’s a start – and one I can find confidence in.

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