I’m just hanging out on the surface.
Maybe I’m that shallow, and have no depth to plumb. I’m afraid to dig, fearful of what I might unearth, ashamed to show you what is there.
The songwriter can clothe her words with music. These words here are raw and unadorned. Naked. If my words are ugly, that’s all there is. The words.
Perhaps there’s nothing there. I don’t know anything. I’m running with the great herd of American consumers. Wanting there to be meaning, but maybe there isn’t. Only playing my role, working and consuming and reproducing, not understanding the dissatisfaction, wanting more, unable to buy it, and left with…
Thinking I have to say something. I mumble it here. I’m another voice among millions. Although I know I’m unique and special. I was told so.
I don’t know if any of this matters. Do I “matter?” I matter to me, and my family, and this is good. But we’d all like to matter more, wouldn’t we?
I don’t know anything. Anything at all.
I’m only writing this out of duty. 300 words, every day. An unplanned and unstable bridge across the void. I like to get the words done early, so I can pretend I’m building something and will one day find the other side.
This comes from a sad, empty place. A hopeful and despondent place. I’m not even sure if I’m writing this to you. It feels bleak and miserable and safe and hackneyed, and pitiable. (But I’m not looking for pity or consolation.)
I’m angry at myself.
For hiding. For not letting go. For not taking off, for not flying, for not doing it.
“This is it. Fight like hell.” —Hugh MacLeod