Dad says I need to stop being content with thinking that I'm stuck in neutral when, really, I'm just sliding backwards all the time.

I thought about this.


I though about Yankel in Everything Is Illuminated: falling in love with things he never had because he lied them into existence on some plane of his reality. Re-running thoughts in his head. I am not sad. I am not sad. I had to do this for myself.

I am not sad.


Somehow the sadness is bearable when the rest of the world doesn't know about it. Sometimes we realize that we love the idea of loving something, and we don't actually love the something.

What color is it? It tastes like red. It is red. But we cry, because it's not more red. It's not redder. The red we crave doesn't actually exist.



Volunteer, Dad says. What do you want? Don't say nothing. Everyone wants something.

I want to know what I want. I want to really want something so badly that it motivates me out of stagnation. It motivates me out of shuffling my circles at the beginnings of things.


Just finish something. Find something you can finish, that's not the top score of a game. That's not a book you've already read. That's not re-sorting your CD collection.

Finish something that you can put on a resume.

Finish something that will prove to the other people that you're worthwhile.

Dad said: If I don't come home from this trip, I don't want you to think that I thought you were a failure. I believe in your potential. I believe in your possibilities more than you believe in them.

I can't find love in this language. I'll learn another. I can find any more questions, I just have lapfuls of answers that I don't know where to put.



Get over your instant excuses. Lesser people that you have gotten over harder things than you to do things.

DO THINGS.

Do things you can finish.

Finish the thoughts that lead to motivation from knowing what you want.



Get out of your cave. What do you do in your room all day?

I read. I sleep. I draw. I write. I write. I write. I love things that I feel like I should love.

I love the idea of wanting something you love. I want the idea of something. I want the something of an ideal wanting.

I just want to find what I want. And I can't.

It's in the more red, and I haven't found it here.

And I'm tired of the filler. I'm tired of striving for some interesting melancholy instead of just plain melancholy.



You write because writing gives you second chances. Because writing, in itself, IS a second chance.

What do you mean, then, when you say you were born to be a writer?



Nobody will hire you, or pay you, for half-finished things.


I am only the beginnings. I am afraid of wanting things to the point of being compelled into completion.

What happens at the end? You can finish failure. I am crippled by the fear of completing my mistakes. You can't run away from something you've finished. Finished means a total commitment.


I don't want the things written in stones.


I am dry erase. I am fingerpaint on the tile floor.

See my chalk, my slate layers, peel off and crumble...
...so easily displaced.