What to do?

I try to write as much as possible. It proves hard sometimes, especially when you feel that there's nothing to write about. There's this big, vast, beautiful world full of opportunity and circumstance and I can't find a damn thing to write about.  It's not that I've lost my passion, it's that I've lost my lust for literature. I've been reading less. I wonder if that has something to do with it. The last book I finished was The Most Beautiful Woman in Town by Charles Bukowski. I mean, it inspired me, sure. But what, should I just copy his writing style and crude stories? Maybe I should have a go at poems again. I feel like there's this false deadline... Maybe that's what I wish- that I had a deadline. Sure, I could pick up a job writing articles for the Savannah Times, but journalism hasn't always interested me.

What do I do? I like sketching and painting, but I'm no good. My boyfriend says that shouldn't stop me from doing it though. I guess sometimes you just have to sit  back and self reflect on what's important. Just creating, or making money through creating. A lot of people say that the first is the obvious answer, but it would be nice to have someone like something I wrote enough to actually pay me for it.

I've been considering picking up school again. Never a bad idea, but student loans scare me. I don't want $100,000 of debt following me around forever. I already know no one is going to be reading this blog. I guess practice writing and poem exercises are the way to go right now.

Maybe I'll figure it out.

Full Circle

Sitting quietly you learn to listen
Listening quietly you learn to speak
Speaking quietly you learn to read
Reading quietly you learn to write
Writing quietly you learn to love.

Untitled / Tuesday, April 19, 2011 (Update)

Sitting alone on a bench, eyes closed, the children playing loudly did not bother her tranquility. She endorsed the commotion. It was a sign she was still connected to the world around her. The overcast skies had cleared for a few moments. The sun danced on her skin for the time it was free to light the city that surrounded her.  It was days like this where she realized that things were all right. The stale stench of pot and cigarettes and trash and perfume created silhouettes of those crossing her. She didn’t need to see to know the people around her. The warm south had opened its large arms and she accepted. All was well, all was right for that moment. Self-reflection had been nothing new, and she did it regularly. Her mother had told her if she didn’t have time to think of herself, she would never be happy. These were words she heeded, for nothing else really mattered. Although she had come to realize that TRYING to achieve happiness was not the way to go about it. Happiness was something she experienced only a few times- or so she had thought. She wasn’t sure how to define the feeling. It was a natural high she craved more than any substance could ever give.

It was noon. She opened her eyes. She wanted to sleep, but knew that would be too unproductive. Heading home would be useless; she didn’t want to be alone. Downtown was riddled with cars and horns and loud noises that she couldn’t handle. Finding a new job was the primary goal for today. It was the primary goal for everyday that she didn’t have one. She did have her bicycle. For a time, she believed that was all she needed to survive. Food was a myth, as was every other necessity. She could just ride and ride and ride until she found happiness. She had quickly realized that wasn’t how things worked. Create your own reality, until that reality clashes with basic human necessity. Traditionally she wouldn’t do this, but this was a dire situation. She reached for a cigarette, lighting it quickly. She stood up, slung her back over her back, yawned, and grabbed her beloved. She wished she had sunglasses.

It took only a few minutes to ride to the main street of downtown. As usual, it was swarmed with tourists, locals, and the mentally gone. Street kids sat on street corners begging for change and cigarettes and pretending to play out of tune guitars. A dirty, simplistic life that only a special few could stand. Tourists seemed to love them, envying their gung-ho life of travel and adventure. Most didn’t know the truth behind the veil of tattered clothing and malnourished dogs. She had watched many travelers, so called train hoppers, getting into their trust fund cars and driving away to whatever apartment or loft or flat in which they hung their heads in shame, forever wishing they had nothing- but knowing they could not survive without it.

There was a sense of loneliness in this whole mess. A feeling of isolation among the crowd- something everyone felt but others more frequently. A social person, she hadn’t thought much of being alone, and when she did it was more of a comfort knowing she wouldn’t have to be.

She stopped in front of a Starbucks, hopping off quickly and pulling her bike to a rack. She locked up, and sighed. Where to begin was the question when looking for work. She knew the summer season would bring jobs, but in a tight knit local community where college students were put first, not being in school was a ripped seam that no one really wanted to be. She didn’t understand- why would you prefer someone who couldn’t fully dedicate their time at a work place. Constant calls out for fake tests and lectures didn’t seem like a skill local businesses would prefer. She was wrong.  

END @ 3:37pm- Continuation