Toast left out on the counter overnight.
The same movie over and over again - you can quote it, but it’s no longer funny; it’s depressing.
That’s where I am. And, I know, every company/product/sponsored post/advice video/mustard advertisement is bitching the same tune:
“This is the lost year!”
“I’m so bored!”
Well, for once I have something in common with the majority and the mustard: I am bored and completely uninspired and, just now, I think short-circuiting.
Writing is - cliché coming - how I come to understand the world. It is my hobby, my job, my escape, my mediation; it covers almost all of my bases because it is the thing I love doing most.
In high-school, I recognized that I was heading down a terrible, well-trodden path paved by so many annoying art students: my conversations revolved entirely around *the work*, and if *the work* was not being discussed, I had nothing to say. I didn’t want to be that guy, that beret-making, smoking guy. So I rewired my brain and I’m happy to report that I can discuss several things.
And, yeah, the work
- the thing is -
- writing -
- is inspired by life.
Not literally (most of the time). I’m 23, I haven’t exactly earned my autobiography yet.
But that guy at the gas station who left with an armful of candy - character
That thing your friend mentioned to you last week at the coffee shop - conflict
That play you saw two weeks ago - environment
The ingredients to a delicious play lie in the cupboard of life. If your cupboard is empty, so is your play. That’s why most rich kids can't make good art.
New events and experiences influence your writing, style, content, whatever. They fill your tank. The world is full of natural characters, conflict, and a particularly cruel sense of irony, so, truthfully, being a writer is more akin to being an observer than a pure creative. A former professor would call us “stenographers”. I like that.
But there are no friends at coffee shops or plays on 6th Avenue; it’s just me
On the floor
In front of the only working radiator in this goddamn house.
It’s me (and Kevin) watching television shows that we’ve already seen or don’t care about
It’s buying HelloFresh because I ate the same two meals every day for five months and was thinking about sending my stomach back to God
It’s begging for a Beagle only to accept (however momentarily) that now is simply not a good time, and placing my heart back into its sad, lonely cage
It’s not knowing anyone here
It’s watching a newly beloved restaurant close, and it’s feeling so broken up about it that it kills your afternoon
It’s dull, it’s flat, and for a storyteller, it’s fucking monotonous chaos.
If I could go twenty minutes without being reminded to vote (I am) or of politics in general, I might have the energy to really explore this new world, push my boundaries and just go out and do something! Alone or not, screw the sadness; I'll keep trudging forward as I've done before, as you are probably doing.
But that wind comes just as quickly as it goes. I’m tired. 24/7 news cycle. I’m tired.
I’m in sweatpants all day, but even that isn’t enough.
It’s as though I’m caught in a small talk circle at a party -
Yeah, I can’t believe he said it either. I mean I can - but I can’t, you know?
It’s a strange time, man.
I reALLY dIdN’T thINk wE’d bE liVIng thROugH a panDEMIC.
I voted early.
When this is all over we should go camping/visit Japan/write Justin Bieber a letter/insert literally any activity into this sentence and it will work
- a party that lasts nine months.
Kill me with a knife.
Nobody likes clichés, but there isn't much else to say because no new phrases have wrinkled themselves into my brain, so it’s running on the only juice it’s got: hokey “welp”isms.
Well - it is what it is.
Ridiculous. What am I, ninety?
I miss my friends, but also I don’t. Because if we hung out, we’d say the same things we say to ourselves. It would be disappointing, and it might leave a bad taste in the mouth that, even after all of this, may never fully disappear. We’d realize this time is better spent alone.
I miss Ireland.
My hermit tendencies have intensified since the beginning, and I’m about twenty days away from throwing caution to the wind and becoming a goat farmer.
My new name will be Stella Ó Loinsigh. I will cast generational curses on anyone that sets foot on my land.
It’s not fun living inside this head right now.
But it’s not fun living inside of yours, either.
I’m out of pity for myself and anger for the government.
I’m out of that helpful can-do attitude.
I just want things to be quiet.
I want peace in my house, my heart.
What I really want is this: select people to sit around the fire with. No discussions have to take place; we don’t need noise, distraction. Just communal introspection.
I don’t need to know the details of that goopy, seeping soul of yours. We can just rest in each other’s company. A cabin full of quiet little hermits, pecking away at their own philosophies in the safe, gentle embrace of The Group. When we were ready to rejoin society, we could. I’d leave this little retreat feeling content for the first time in a long time, and my social battery would be recharged.
That will not be the awakening that takes place at the end of this. I foresee a rebirth of 1985 panic and disco. I see cocaine and thigh-high boots and who cares?!
That will probably not be how I reintroduce myself to the world, but if it is yours, I’m excited for you. Genuinely. Sounds fun.
I don’t know why I’m putting this out there. I guess I just needed someone to know that I’m frustrated, and trying, and more often than not right now failing.
I miss being invisible at your house parties and cancelling plans. I really miss theatre.
And I want a Beagle so fucking badly I could cry.