11/13/2011

I should start out by saying I have nothing to write about, but am nonetheless compelled to write.

I did some stuff today.  It was without importance or even meaning.

I used to use music to communicate, but now even that’s too hard.  The notes I produce just sound as empty and worthless as everything else does.  The words I write mean nothing.  Have I ever felt anything?

I could never make it as a writer or a musician or anything because of these long periods of hollowness.  I am without passion. 

Caring about something requires sacrifice.  Time and energy.  The possibility of betrayal or of abandonment.  The willingness to stand up for what you believe in.  I’m too vapid for any of that. 

I mean I used to care.  But then “real life” got in the way, and suddenly the only conversations I was having were about fences and electric bills and the quality of the food I was feeding my pets.  “There’s just not time” for abstract things like world hunger or even something like “feelings” or “love” or whatever.

There’s real life and then there’s what’s in my mind– and that’s not real.