Take me for example. I’m wrestling head on with a unique issue. These are not workshop exercises. I’m not play praying or patty-caking. I’m not even creating. This is jungle hunting guerilla expeditioning. I’m following the so called thread. I listen. I pay attention. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself. That only causes problems. Things lose clarity the closer you look at them. Mainly I just write, and I find that when I’m doing it right, it has the potential to be both thrilling and peaceful. It’s why people envy the artist. They don’t understand the strain that comes with digging. They don’t understand the ligament fear of failing to find something. They think it’s all guaranteed. They don’t see the forest for the trees. They think we’re all actors. They think fiction is found over a line in the sand.
It’s just like cigarettes. It’s all fun and games until you’re trying to quit. I don’t need your sympathy in this matter… I can do it on my own. My silent fashion is getting more credence in the flesh. There’s a big part of me that wants to tell everyone I’m dying. I want to be crawling on my hands and knees, begging for sympathy and pity. I want to fall forward while walking my dog and let him drag me into the next day. I want to tell Jamie-Beth that I’m sorry. I know that I’m breaking a bond between us, cutting the umbilical cord of smoke break siblingry.
I’ve got to do right by family, I say. They’re going to take my blood. I am creating. I have to move beyond the need. I have to get out of the danger zone, the death spiral. This is my life, and I would never impose my sanctions on another. Live your death. Live the vogue. Go as long as you want. I’m fine with you looking up to me as a sort of role model, but you don’t have to take this into account if you don’t want to. Different strokes for different folks. You’ll be fine. I won’t.