Write. Write anything. Really, anything at all. Writing is good. Or so they say. Those on the outside, who couldn’t possibly understand all the minute nuances of all the ways that words can hurt.
To which I retort: good for what exactly? Remembering? Keeping wounds open? Making them deeper? So I don’t write, I just pretend to do it so as not to lose my edge at least. Yes, these days I’m just a shameless pretender – not because I enjoy it in even an infinitely small measure, but because I can’t envision any better alternative. Camouflaged in projects and objectives. Hidden behind books. Kept distracted by TV shows and movies. Kept breathing by music playing softly in the twilight.
It’s finally summer; the air smells of hot asphalt and greener than green grass, the crickets chirp incessantly as soon as the sun’s gone down. But my instinct tells me it’s going to be another one of those Lana kind of summers; and my instinct’s almost never wrong. If only I’d listen to it more often, maybe the Lana kind of summers would significantly decrease in frequency.
There, I wrote something. Things I’d written so many other times before, my very own personal clichés. Nothing to see here, move along, move along.