Wednesday, October 27, 2004


You're doing what I want to be doing. You're living my life, driving my car, writing my blog. You're content with the illusion of freedom; I've fallen and I can't get up.

To exist today is to be lost. You know this.

You are too free. Part of an entire generation of apathetic, do-nothing twentysomethings. Things were better when you had no choice - even just fifty years previous. If your father was a doctor, you became a doctor. If your mother was a midwife, you became a midwife. If they wanted you to do something else, your parents put you through school and told you what you'd become. Now, you can be whatever you choose. So you choose to be nothing.

This is where you are. You've chosen to pursue a life of, what, sentences? Words? Letters? What if all that's left at the end of your life is a body of unfinished work? A collection of half-finished novels, a number of roughed-out stories, a couple pages of disjointed dialogues? Will you have accomplished anything? Will it all have been for nothing?

That fear that lives inside you: that you will never have an idea. That you're playing the wrong slot machine. That someone won big on this very machine right before you sat down, and as soon as you're gone someone will win big again. That there are no ideas waiting for you; that it's simply not your time.

That you will expire long before the idea machine pays out.

Can you ever know if you make the right choices in life, if you live your life properly? Will you know in that last second, right before everything fades to black?

You do not believe life could be so cruel.

And by you I mean I.

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