Working Hard

Being a self-proclaimed writer is so goofy.

      I tell people that I am ‘going to work for a bit’,

         when really,

            I just sit alone, with my headphones in,

            drinking beer or whiskey,

    bleeding out everything that is inside me.

So goofy.

I read a quote yesterday from a famous poet who was asked by a friend what he had worked on the previous day.

The poet said he had spent all of yesterday taking out one single coma from a poem. And he told his friend he spent all day that day putting the coma back in.

How silly.

How goofy.

How childish.

          What kind of person takes their pain,

             and the pain of the person they love,

                and uses it

                 to create

                 a poem?

A crazy person, that’s who.

A masochist, that’s who. 

A drunk, that’s who. 

The man that expresses their feelings so enthusiastically—so sarcastically—can’t be trusted. He can’t be loved. 

A stoner, that’s who. 

A musician, that’s who. 

A lover, that’s who. 

Who can keep it all inside of themselves, though? Who can honestly do that? Maybe a statue can. Maybe a robot can. Maybe an algorithm can. But what kind of human can keep everything they feel within? Where is the expression? Where is the lesson? Where is the exploration? 

I remember when Socrates told me, “the unexamined life isn’t a life worth living,” or some shit like that. That dude yapped nonstop. 

Hey, why is the river flowing the wrong way today? How strange . . .

What kind of man can picture all of her pain in their mind, turn it into a ball of darkness, before bringing it from their mind to their chest?  . . . Who can hold it there? Do they really feel it all? Do they forgive it? Do they even love it?? . . . They focus on it? Seriously? . . . Okay, but who can actually imagine all of that dark pain turning white and warm inside of them? . . . They let it rise? They let it slowly rise to their head? . . . They imagine a beam of light going from their head to the heavens? They release her pain into the beam of light and watch it rise? . . . No way . . . Do they really turn darkness into light? They turn lead into gold? They let it all go? They ask the universe to receive it? They let it flow? They patiently let everything unfold? 

The poet can’t do that! Heck no. I doubt it. Not me, anyway. Not I . . . I won’t even try . . . Okay, maybe just once, I’ll try it and see what happens. 

See? Being a writer is so goofy. What an elaborate mask this is. 

The river is still flowing the wrong way today. How strange.

CH 3/21/26