day is done

Dear K-

It’s 4 am again, and I find myself hunched over the desk, scribbling like a maniac. I can hear Sam’s snoring in the other room…he’s going to move on in a few months and do something worthwhile with his life. Maybe that’s why he’s able to sleep so easily: he has identified his purpose and is taking the steps to engage in a productive life. What have I got? A bottle of Jack and a stack of blank papers. Perhaps this is why I’m never sleeping at this hour…that or the fact that this chair makes the worst bed you could ever imagine.

It has gotten to the point where it doesn’t matter what I am writing about, just so long as I am writing. When I feel the words flow out of me, scrambling into sentences and paragraphs, I feel like some sort of supreme shepherd. As the last period punches into place, there is that moment of satisfaction…that beautiful sigh of feeling productive. It only lasts an instant, though. By now I’ve written so much that I’ve developed a tolerance to the sensation, and I have to write more and more each time in order to experience the same feeling. Sometimes the reaction is the opposite, and I get so frustrated with everything that I tear the papers in half, then spend two hours staring at a fresh sheet. Thank God for technology; within the last year I’ve probably saved at least two hundred dollars on paper, not to mention I’ve killed significantly less trees. Don’t worry, however. I’ll consume plenty of other resources in order to make up for this lack.

Honestly, I can’t see the future in it all, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. Humans really shouldn’t focus so much on what will be, but rather strive to endure the present. Sam may think he’s got it all figured out, so that he can rest easy at night. He’s submitted to the ideas presented by society, and he’s content to play that role. Sam really is a good guy, though, and I think he’ll be great at whatever it is he believes is his life’s goal. I, however, am keen to keep progressing as I am, rolling out the endless pages of scattered thoughts and crawling frantically after that brief high of satisfaction that accompanies each completed work.

How long I can keep at this before my health abandons me, however, I am not sure.

As long as you're still out there looking, trying to find something...anything...then I won't say a word. It is when you stop searching that I'll become frightened. You can wander through those misty nights and blissfully sunny afternoons, but as you sleep I bet you return to America, whether you want to or not. How long can you run from that?

Waiting,
-K