Sometimes

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. That doesn’t make me sound like much of a writer, does it? But so it is. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and stretch out a yawn, crack my back, and all I want to do is stay in bed with someone…but there’s no one there…at least not now. I usually flip open my laptop before I take even one step onto my carpeted floor, which covers the hardwood below, which covers the two by fours supporting my room, which covers the foundation, which covers the earth. Removed. Sometimes I write a line or two, and sometimes I just stare at my reflection on the screen, studying the contours of my face. I squint my eyes attentively, and watch the corners wrinkle and compress, watch my brow furrow. I relax my eyes and breathe; the wrinkles don’t all smooth like they used to. I don’t particularly care. A year ago I cared, but now my hairline has all my attention. In a year I won’t care about that either, I’ll be worried about my eyes. In 50 years I’ll be toothless, blind, with more hair in my nose and ears than on my head, and I’ll walk with a limp, but I won’t be bothered at all. I’ll have more swagger than I ever had before, and I’ll be happier and more satisfied than I can imagine now. So it is.

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. I said it doesn’t make me sound like much of a writer, but that makes sense. I mean, writers get paid to write. I’ve gotten paid for lots of things—carpentry, delivering pizza, translating, hosting parties, waiting tables—but never for writing. Yet I’d never tell you I was a server, a carpenter, or a translator…I’d tell you I’m a writer. Sometimes, after I close my laptop I want to strap my shoes on, sling my blue Kelte Coyote pack over my shoulder, stuffed with minimal clothing, and just go… Where? Sometimes I want to go anywhere, but other times I want to go to specific places: Aswan in Upper Egypt, Abadiyah in the West Bank, Dedza in Malawi, Amherst in Massachusetts. Sometimes I want to walk into my father’s apartment on Arizona St. without knocking, and crawl into his bed while he sleeps. I want him to wake up and put his arm around me and give me a kiss on the forehead and say, “Hey guy…everything’s gonna be fine. I love you.” Some. Times. Are. Gone. Forever. And his dry calloused hand through my hair.

Sometimes I don’t feel like writing at all. Sometimes I just want to wile out! Get drunk and kick up a shitstorm with my friends, yelling out of the passenger window at all the suckers on the street. Sometimes I wanna tear the roof off this bitch, and just let chaos envelope me and it, I want to be the chaos that envelopes it, and envelopes me; the destruction and delight. Other times, all I want is to sit quietly at the round wooden table in my dining room, and watch the steam as it rises off of my coffee, spinning and swirling in the dark hours of the morning while the world still sleeps.

Sometimes all I want is the silence.

Sometimes I want to describe it.