Ben Bonkoske

So silent and tired. Tried and true. I do this for you. My hair smells like roses. I don’t want to kill my love for writing or my will to get up in the morning. But every day, I write more than I’d like and get out of bed before I’m finished sleeping. I’d hope that by doing more of the fundamental refinements of life (exercise, meditation, reading) I’d find more time. It is surprising how much time it takes to discipline yourself. A year, minimum. I am a completely different person than I was a year ago. I probably would have accepted something I didn’t order. I had no idea the direction I wanted to go. I still don’t, but I’m doing what I’ve always wanted. It is exhausting and exhilarating. I finally know the fundamentals of a story. I suggest more people find the courage to believe in themselves. It takes a village. Hopefully, I write a damn short story before the end of the month. I focus too much on just saying what is on my mind. It is, a fundamental refinement. I am trying to be the hero of my story. I don’t know who the villains are, yet. But I used to identify as two people. My alter ego being the cause of my downfall and the reason I’ve only written tragedies thus far. My life is a confusing story. If you stick around, I promise to be open about it. Not the day to day. But the 23 years that made me a failure with self-respect. I hope that words would just appear on some endless scroll, forever being recycled by the next young minds of generations to come. I will die someday. And someday that will be all I’ve written. I don’t suppose it is healthy to judge life on how much you wrote, because the sentence will surely end. Then what? Maybe that’s where it starts.