Although I have nothing to say, I must have something to write.
To begin with the mundane – I got a new fridge in my apartment a few months back. It is much louder than the older one. So much so that I just walked across the unit to get a very, very old pair of earplugs. They are orange ones. And have probably have been being used since Covid – with a nice dark brown and blue rim of earwax around the tip. It is due time for a new pair.
It is due time for a new pair of shoes as well. I have had the same running shoes with a hole in them since Covid (2020) as well, and although I have a very effective pair of minimalist shoes – I suspect they smell more than I am aware- being that I only go barefoot in them. Either that, or today the girl sitting next to me was covering her nose with her shirt because a subtle grime has clung to my skin from spring cleaning yesterday. I blew off the opera to clean (story of my life) and I was up until 3 (the current story…).
But I have a clean apartment, a quiet mind, and a pair of shoes I have walked a few miles in.
The first thing as it relates, is that I think I have been lied to by myself that I am in need of a more expensive lifestyle. Good writers, the ones who really, really write, often did so with baked beans (Cormac McCarthy), and a 4 dollar telephone bill (Don Delillo). And here I am, lying to myself that what I really need to be happier or more profound is a new fridge, an outrageously costing vitamin regimen, and new shoes.
Always the case, that you realize everything to late – and then you get a great opportunity to make a choice. But I took this year to write. Kinda. I said I would substitute so that my mental health would be in a good place and I’d be prepared for the coming year. And it is all true. But, what I didn’t do was what I love.
Buisness as usual against the heart.
And I’m to blame today. I’m not sad, or feeling pathetic or anything. It is just a itty bitty resentment at myself that I could’ve done something much more literary this year.
I think all this amounts to is an old notion that “I’m always living my life for someone else.”
But isn’t that a good thing? To help children and make your dad proud? I was told it is. And there is no such thing as lying. Especially by the same value-based system that tells me I can buy my way to happiness.
It’s all dangerous, and I kinda know the right answer for me, but like, I’m not always right.
Ben Bonkoske 