I Thought I Had It

I wrote something the other day. It was rather profound, in terms of me, anyway. Brutally honest, a tad poetic, and maybe a little more internal than I had intended, but I wrote it. It just sort of came out that way.

After I finished it, I quite literally sat back, let out a deep breath, and smiled. I was happy that I wrote it, if not more than a little confused. Not confused because I didn't understand it, but because I didn't really know where it came from. It was just kind of there.

Fear set in, as I looked at the printed pages resting on my desk. I didn't want to read it. I didn't want to risk the realization of the words I had written being false. At that point, I believed wholeheartedly what I produced, but I was still afraid that I had lied. I'm not sure why I would lie to myself. I guess in this case, the subject matter was a topic that I enjoyed daydreaming about, and we all know that more than the occasional lie peppers our daydreams. People are sort of built that way.

Me being the editor-oriented idiot that I am decided, almost out of reflex, to flip through it quickly. I assure you, my intent was quickly. But, I saw one of those damn typos and it hit me, I absolutely had to read it, because I can't stand errors. Especially those that might disrupt the comprehension of the piece. This was too important to me. What can I say? I'm just kind of nutty like that.

So, I edited it, briefly. Didn't find any more typos, but found a couple of things that needed to be changed. Nothing was wrong, or inaccurate, but I have nit-picky aesthetic, and I don't like my writing to look like crap, much like this blog currently looks. But, hey, I sort of can't sleep, and I've got nothing else to do.

Now the piece is, for the most part, finished and ready for its intended audience. Only, I'm not entirely sure who that intended audience is anymore. I knew when I wrote it. Hell, I could've sent it off for publication, so to speak, as soon as I had finished printing it. But now, I just don't know. Of course, given this tumultuous year, I shouldn't have expected anything else. I haven't known a damn thing about a damn thing since I left North Carolina. I thought being older and more experienced was supposed to help people figure things out, but I guess I was kind of wrong about that, too.

So here I am, up at 2:30 in the morning, typing randomly about something you probably have absolutely no idea about. And there it is, sitting on my desk, with no one to read it. It's often said that the pen is mightier than the sword, that words have power. But I think mine are waning, listless in a world where physical contact is becoming more rare, and more valuable. A year ago I could talk my way out of anything, write my way out of even more, but now? Now I'm just another yutz with a self-important blog that nobody reads, sitting up at night, alone, freezing my ass off, with little to look forward to. And my work? It's turning into an embarrassment. Things just sort of happen that way, I guess.

I was so happy when I wrote it, and now I'm nearly the opposite of happy. Perhaps I'm just tired, but I can't help but thinking that I almost had it. This piece could, theoretically and in actuality, change my life. When I wrote it, I thought that it could only change for the better, but now I'm thinking it will only make things worse. It probably wouldn't, but now I'm almost too scared to take the chance. Kind of the way things go, isn't it? Especially as of late.

I thought I had it. I almost had it. Almost.