I can hear Lisa talking to the cats like they’re our children, through the other wall my oldest son plays an old video game. Me I’m laying here half-ass watching a playoff game while finger-tapping these words into my phone. It still amazes me that people actually read this junk I write. I mean, I have no formal writing pedigree. I lived nothing if not an ordinary life. I’ve lived no exotic adventures or even lived through any extraordinary stories beyond my own. Yet I have a modest following of 10 or 15 people, that either like my words or the silly little snapshots I take.
Whatever the reason, I caught the bug to write again after a 20+ year drought. As a kid I wrote all the time. I wrote poetry to all my girlfriends. I wrote superhero stories for all my guy friends. I later wrote stories just to keep myself sane. I suppose I’ve built quite a persona about myself. Being the person others have perceived me to be. I often think to myself, why do I act that way? Like I’m silly and boisterous around some, hard and grouchy with others, or cold and inhumane around a few more. All the while my wife Lisa gets the pleasure or displeasure of seeing it all.
Now I see the world through a very cynical pair of glasses. I suppose my life experiences, have shaped me that way. Hearing kind words coming out of someone’s mouth, while at the same time seeing true intent coming from their hands. I suppose I could accept some form of redemption for those sins. But when actions are repeated over and over again, redemption is farthest thing from my mind. So in order to walk the path, sometimes you got to wade through the shit to get to solid ground. But some things in life aren’t worth trying to understand. All you can do is just move forward, while dropping that excess baggage as you go.