Day 96: The Grind

96 days.

42 posts.

41225 words and counting.

Lots of tears and an almost embarrassing amount of whiskey went into the creation of these pages.

And lots of beer.  And scotch.  And other convenient little helpers ingested just to temporarily ward off the loneliness and the echoing fears of a tomorrow unfairly promised and never quite arriving.

There was also tear gas.

And bullets, both peppered and rubber, fired at me in anger.

And an almost insurmountable isolated isolation suffered for the sake of the common good.

There was this pandemically mandated quarantine, locked down tight, here in this little flyover town.

And finally, at last, the City of Wayne is opening itself back up, though in measured, impatiently hesitant steps.

But, I’m not sure that I even really want it anymore.

Not now.

Not when the world is calling me out towards new adventures and experiences.  A world teasing me with the tantalizing first words of a story yet to be written, if only I am brave enough to just jump off that cliff in pursuit of the story.

I just have to be bold enough to chase them down.  And then to make that leap.

Even when it hurts.  Even when it ends up costing me everything I once held dear.  Even when the words refuse to come, leaving me indefinably mute on the cusp of another unjustified tomorrow dawning.

I just don’t know what else to do, especially now, when the hour grows so late and the bottles grow so empty.

Because there’s always just one more roll of the dice, fool, just to finish the game in spectacularly dysfunctional fashion.

The future possible payoffs or repercussions be damned.

All in for the sake of the moment, just to push the encapsulating boundaries so arbitrarily carved into the yielding flesh of my moments unguarded and left nakedly abandoned on these city streets, running so very wrong.

This is just my here and now and I want better than this.  I deserve better than this empty house and this tragically empty bed.  I deserve better than just the whispered whiskey promises late into the night, regardless of how closely we danced.

The unimpressive skyline of a City of Wayne shines out over me tonight, but I have to resist the urges of the towering familiarity.  The comfortingly predictable shadows, once so soothingly tangible, now seem so foreign and somehow uninviting.

Because I find myself constantly suffocating in the swamps of its mediocrity.

I find myself rigorously defined and caught within the confines of overly-complicated equations that offer no meaningful solutions, just more hastily scribbled nonsense that I cannot seem to understand.

Ridiculously temporary.

Impotently uninspired.

Just another wannabe writer left to struggle in the many wars of his muse, so unpredictable in her fickle ways.

Floundering.

Drowning.

Exhausted from the burden of having to be me in a world that just doesn’t want to hear.

Or care.

I am a survivor.

But, I am just barely surviving.

And I cannot help but to think that there has to be more to life than just this.  There has to be some meaning hidden behind all this hurt and lingering disappointment.  And all the loss.  And all the struggles fought simply for the sake of having no other move left to make but to dig in and die on those petty hills of stubbornly unaccountable indignity.

Then I look around and it is just me.  And this fucking typewriter, so deceptively tangible in its design.  There are just these songs, played on the endless loop of my unsettled spirit, mocking me with their artistic decency and depth.

But, I will never be that good.  Or lyrical.  My words, no matter how carefully crafted or cleverly written, will never reach that level of universal acceptance.

And I made my peace with that long ago.

I will, eventually one day, simply fade away into the camouflaging mists of literary mediocrity.  I know that I most likely will never go down in history, but given the opportunity, I probably would go down on someone’s sister.

And that’s just not the story that really matters.

All I ever wanted was to document my experiences in these wildly unpredictable times, capturing for a potential posterity the feelings of fear and uncertainty that came close to defining a generation so precipitously close to the end of the world.  I wanted to use the time provided by an indignant universe to perfect my craft and polish my literary intellect in the faint hope that something meaningful would possibly stick.

And, I’m not sure that I accomplished that by the measure of any meaningful benchmark.

But I don’t know what else to do.

Because like the song says:

I wish I died
On that night right by your side.
So just kill me now
And let the good times roll.

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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