Check yoself befo you wreck yoself

So I'm sitting here staring at a blank monitor, anathema to a writer, yet I cannot find a single thing to write about. In light of other things, a lot of my personal problems seem to take on an selfish aspect.

We all know life consists of mountains and valleys. The thing is, those mountaintop fancies look a lot shorter from the valley, where, to our embittered eyes, the horizon extends into forever. For every year I spend on the mountain, I spend three in the valley. Some argue that this serves the purpose of reminding us just how precious those few moments are way up there on the zenith. Others look at it as Fate's way of toying with us. I think I straddle the fence, somewhere in between.

Like roughly everyone else, I'm self-obsessed. I'm so caught up with my failures, my lost hopes, and my wasted time that I can barely see the fruits of my toil, even though they surround me. Oh, sure, I can see the apparent happiness of others: the smiles the men and women wear in public, the physical contact of two lovers holdling hands across a dinner table, the laughs of drunken friends as they swap stories at the bar. But I feel like an Observer, a note-taker, someone acutely aware of those fulfilling activities and rituals but strictly forbidden not to partake of or engage in them.

There are numerous reasons for this. Number one, I'm not where I want to be. Physically, mentally, spiritually. I thought I'd be graduated by now, teaching high school english, in a town where I feel comfortable and at home. Instead I'm a stranger in a strange land. I'm forced to pay debts I incurred over a year ago while visiting a ghost. I thought I'd be free from my vices. I imagined myself head of the household, spiritually. But somehow, every day, I find myself in this dark, dingy basement, trying to write one true sentence, when the truth is, I've hardly lived life at all.

There were no crazy high school parties; no hotel rooms after the prom (I never went); no wild college spring break trips to Cancun, or West Palm, or Miami; no insane rock concerts or three-day-long music festivals. I never got into fights. I never even hit someone until I was nineteen, and even then, I only got three or four punches in (I won, by default... he got pinned by someone, and couldn't land one). I've never seduced a girl. I've never played in a football game, or hunted a deer, or been kayaking. I've only been overseas once, when I was five, and that hardly counts. (It was Germany). I've never been to New York, L.A., London, Paris, Madrid... The farthest west I've ever been was Texas, and all I remember of it was the heat.

I've had three girlfriends since high school. The first was Elizabeth "Tizzy" Forehand. I met her in Murfreesboro and we dated for about three months, the summer before my sophomore year in college. I was 18. The second was Angela Durrance, and I can't technically call her my "girlfriend", because we were merely "dating" at the time (although I felt -- foolishly -- that we were exclusive). I was 20. She was 25. She had an adorable little five-year-old boy, Austin, who was obsessed with Pokemon. We dated long enough for me to fall in love, although I was still learning what "being in love" truthfully meant. We dated for about four months. It wasn't until four years later, however, when I met Nellie, that I finally understood the complete selflessness of true love. But that experience left me broken and miserable... feelings which continue to this very day; indeed, to this very moment.

So, then, if a writer must write about what he knows... what if the writer knows very little? Or not enough? Or, what if what he knows isn't true? You could say truth is relative, truth is different to everybody... But some things are universal... And what if my stories, my characters, my poems, whatever... what if they're merely the ramblings of a crazy man? What if they don't touch that universal core in all of us? Heh. Now I'm just being pretentious...

My personal truth, then, is this: live life a little bit more each day...?

Hell, I have no personal truth. Except hope that one day I'll make it, I'll have those precious treasures, even if I have to crawl on my belly to get there.