As I write, I’ve started to figure out a few things about the world and why nothing ever seems to change. The world isn’t real. I go out and I attend classes and I watch other people as they go about their day and I realized that what they all do seems almost pointless. I see people go out and drink and smoke and party and it seems to help them deal with what the world is, but I’ve never looked to those options in my life.
I feel like I’m reading the same book over and over again with slight editorially differences from edition to edition. The style changes a little, but it’s still the same old tired story. It makes me think about what is real and what is it that we make up to either make ourselves feel important or to make it seem like our lives have some sort of meaning. I spend 8 months writing and perfecting a book and it was supposed to be some monumental feat. It’s supposed to be some life changing event, but it wasn’t. I’m still just as meaningless and non essential as before, and I think I’m ok with it.
I will finish my planned works and just call it a day. Besides, the world isn’t real, right?
Maybe it’s just the feeling I have right now, but from what I have been thinking about the last few nights is this. I think I will write a few more books, those that have to do with my current characters, and then probably call it quits. Why some might ask, or based on my sales maybe just a handful of people will ask. The answer is simple. There isn’t anything left to write about.
I’ve a strange and often tortured life and for more than 90% of my years, it seems as if I were living for someone else and not myself. I kept telling myself that once I was able to write I book that I would want to read and enjoy that life would somehow suddenly change; like it would take on a whole new meaning and I could finally live for myself and no do all the things I am simply expected to do. Yet, here I am. My book is out and available and while a few people have felt strongly enough about it to see fit to purchase it, I can’t help but feel like nothing has changed at all. Here I am, still doing all the things I don’t want to do and feeling as if I am only here to service the needs of others. Sure, it’s easy to see that writing a book, in a sense, is the same thing, but I beg to differ. I wrote the book not for fame and fortune. I wrote it because I felt I had something to say. I had a story that I thought was amazing and sad and beautiful and terrible and so utterly consuming that i felt the need to put it all down, so that’s exactly what i did. I worked so hard on it that while some dreams of making a real living off of it did seep into my mind, I stopped thinking about that all together and instead focused on writing the best book I could write.
That being said, the story is far from over as the characters will go through changes and, as in real life, both tragedy and wonderment will come into play. Unfortunately, after all that is said and done and the story is out there for all to read, I think, based on my current feelings, that I will be done. I will in no way lax in my style of writing simply to get all this over with. That has not and will never be my intention. Once I give my characters a respectable send off, I will be done and that will be that.
I don’t even care about school or a job or living for that matter as most things I have been a part of in my life, in the end, never really mattered. I don’t have friends and I don’t expect to gain any and I am too old to go out looking for them anymore. Those I knew when I was young have grown and moved on and that’s great. I am glad they were able to make a life for themselves. I look at them now and I think to myself where in the grand scheme of things do I fit? Either I have the absolute worst timing ever, or I simply don’t belong anywhere. I’ve left towns and tried to restart my life in different places, but i began to wonder why things never seemed to work. Now I know why.
Now I know why people never cared much for my company and that’s fine. I know I am difficult and hard to get along with and I know it’s at least partially my fault that people have faded from my life, and I am ok with that. I never expected anyone to want to put up with me for very long and based on that, I guess I have forgiven everyone and, without words, given them an out. I cannot think of a single person in my life who really gave to craps about what I thought or what I felt or cared enough to put things aside for my benefit. It may sound greedy and it probably is, but I can’t help but think to myself just how many times in my life I’ve taken the fall for others and how many times I was left hanging all because someone wanted something or someone else. I cannot get past it and I know it’s my problem and not yours and so I will so what i feel is the right thing and just bow out.
I have 2, maybe 3 more books in me and I am working on them at this moment; feverishly finding the words so that I can give my creations a proper send off. Then after that, I am done and no one will be asked to deal with my crap anymore. I’m just done. I am tired of chasing dreams I cannot catch and I am tired of waiting for anyone to listen. I sit in a room on a floor, typing on a keyboard without a desk and that’s by my own choice, but one would have to think that in all that time that someone would have at least tried to intervene.
Being that I have never felt close to anyone, not even my family, I guess this is probably the way it should be. Till I am through with all this, I will keep recording my butterflies and wondering if there really ever was an Emily Martin. My heart will keep rumbling even though I don’t want it to, and with each beat, I know I will always feel a little pain. No one is there waiting for me, because all my life as the minutes and hours and days and weeks and months and years rolled by, I never once saw anyone except myself staring back at me, and I’ve never liked what I saw. How presumptuous of me to think that anyone would see anything different.
Static is all I hear and it might as well be silence. I’m not sure what it is I am listening for, but I know it’s more than this. Highlights and twilight beckon and I am not certain of very much anymore. Nothing new I suppose, confused incontinent mind unable to grasp my foreseeable future. My fingers spitting out toying words and subject matter of the 7th degree; not making much sense as I deal with illness and dizzying tiredness. I’ve lost 6 pounds of water weight just today and I am not sure if I want to look at that as a bad thing just yet. I inhale bottles of the stuff, yet it melts off me as my mild fever comes and goes. I dress in layers, warm ups covering my legs and I even place the wool cap on my head, but I can never seem to get warm enough. Two blankets I place over my body. The one I feel on my torso is soft and comforting while the other is stiff, its material eliciting an itch which I cannot help but scratch. I toss it from my chin as my patience is beyond exhausted.
No longer can I rest so now I must write and express and tell stories no one will understand, but I write them anyway. Words keep coming, but no sense is assigned. Mindless and tired, sometimes we do things out of habit more than for survival. While not bothersome, my habit is never being able to let my mind sleep. Even when I do sleep, I am restless and my body tosses about on the bed till I am sitting on the floor once again harboring delusions of fanatic assumption. I crave sleep. Admittedly, I sleep to dream and dream I do, but my mind, forever writing its stories, battles my fantasies and forces touches of reality into them. While I imagine others sleeping and snoring and perhaps unknowingly smiling in their slumber, I can feel myself moving, twitching, unable to let myself relax.
At times, I cannot tell if I am dreaming or waking up. I force myself to become self-aware which is both a blessing and a curse. Blessing so forth, the knowledge of dreaming, exhuming the fossils of my nature and the demons of my past, yet the curse lingers. Knowing my mind is lurking and hiding reality from me, sitting, waiting to procure enough sentiment to cause my logic harm, I tread lightly and wait for the storm to arrive. Still, I cannot help but let this happen for dreaming comes much easier to me that the realism of the world outside my bedroom door, for in my dreams, I can create and write however I like without fear of prudence and judgment. In these dreams, I can see her and only her and she makes me feel normal and real and safe. Her hair long and flowing, her body small and almost fragile. I look into her and she stares back, looking into my nothingness and finding what is hidden and blackened by disdaining aberration. However long the night or complacent the façade, she tears it all down and reveals what is real and I begin to feel content. The opening of my eyes enemies my infatuation and need to be with her, but I know my time with her is limited, so I must revel in its glorious splendor.
The big build up is almost done. Chapter 19 turned into something I wasn’t really looking to do, but it turned out really well. It had the main character conversing with two people familiar with his situation and one of them finally made a real impact on him. Chapter 20 has him doing something completely out of character for him and as he does it he is trying to figure out why and how it will all work out. 20 will also bring back our long ignored 2nd lead, but she will appear toward the very end of the chapter as most of it will be focused on the journey to her and not necessarily feature her. The 2nd major part of the storyline is to be written very soon and it seems my dreams have pushed another idea into focus. Olivia once again has sent a little nugget of inspiration to me and it makes the climax in 21 seem much easier to write.