The First Wall

  There’s a sort of hopelessness that comes with having a goal set. When the destination is marked on a map and the clarity of it all settles in, that there are miles and miles before I can rest my feet again. I plan to write a book. No, correction, I plan to rewrite my book. I feel it was done incorrectly during my first attempt. So I’ve come to the conclusion that it needs to be poured out, that new words need to fill it from the bottom back up again. But with writing, words are just drops, and it takes more drops than I can fathom to fill this emptiness. So, yes I see a goal, a place to head to and plant my flag of accomplishment. But like I stated before, there’s a hopelessness that comes with my goal. I know how many pages I wrote before, how long it took me to accomplish something that I now view as a failure, and I no longer have every single waking moment to pour myself into it. Now there’s more to life, work and responsibilities and friendships. So the pot is empty, the fire under it is warm, each word that falls in nearly sizzles away with each edit and frustrated moment of indecisiveness.

   So just to set the goal, I set a wall, a wall I’ve climbed once before that I fear I can’t climb again. Not with the new set of weights that I tangle myself in. It’s funny, to take a break from what I’m writing to write this. Most people wouldn’t understand that action. I know what most people who don’t write to create would say, “Just write it, that’s all you’ve got to do.” Well sure. Like so many people who create, I’m sure they just sit down and blow magic out of every orifice in their body. No, I know how it goes, I know how difficult it is to write. Like carving through solid stone, creating form from nothingness. It’s easy to put words down, but it’s difficult to write. Especially in a world full of convenient distractions.

   Anyway, I’m losing my steam, even now all the noises of the world spill into my small space. Trains far off in the distance, crickets all chiming in a deafening chorus of irritating madness, and my father speaking to my grandmother on a speaker phone that is loud enough to be heard from one corner of the house to the other. I miss my old schedule, writing at 2am. It was like the world was dead. Dead enough for me to think clearly and actually get something done. At 2am the wall didn’t seem so big, because nothing stood between me and climbing it.

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