The effort it takes to continue writing everyday is serious. For the last three years I have tried/dreamed/hoped to become a writer. I pick up the pen(metaphorical of course, what is this the 90s) and apply myself for a few weeks before giving up and moving onto the next hobby. I’m doing all that I can to make this hobby a habit. But sleep and life seriously gets in the way. I’m not bitter just enlightened. I am a writer.
The dark wood was heavily lacquered to keep wandering ketchup globs and beer rings from ruining the pine surface. He never really looked a lacquer, why didn’t they just make the table out of plastic if they planned to cover it in the stuff. Was lacquer even plastic, he didn’t know. With his head in his hands and a straw in hos mouth he sipped down his tenth glass of water. Even though he had given up the drink he still frequented his old favorite on the weekends. The memories of better times were too good to pass up. He wished that he had the self control to be drunk the willpower to have three drinks and call it good.; But he didn’t have the bank account to continue living that lie. He was depressed enough without the booze. Fitting right in with the regulars so lost in their cups that they couldn’t find the bottoms of them. He sat and chugged water like a man lost at sea would upon his rescue.
Conversations often came up about his habit but he shook them off like an itchy sweater. He was a man and men didn’t need conversation. They didn’t need friends, loved ones or families he was his own. At least thats the bullshit he told himself to feel better about being such an asshole to every person that entered his life. At least he kicked the drinking there was always that. No matter how much he self sabotaged he would never He squeezed his eyes shut tight to forget the sights of his past transgressions the fogged windows and the sideways rain.
The bartender was a slim brunette who was always nicer to him because he was the only sober one in the place. She smiled and asked him if he’d like another. He shook his head and pushed the stool back. “No, I’ll be heading off towards home Ashley, thanks.” He dug his hands deep into his pockets looking for the self respect he misplaced years ago and slumped out of the door.
The low black street lamps lit the street in almost perfect intervals, their spheres of warm yellow light provided an oasis of assumed saftey. He skirted their halo’s preferring to keep his path in the darkness. It was almost a game he played, blending into the surroundings. He had trailed people for hours doing this. He didn’t anymore, now he just ghosted home to his empty house. Her things still hung on the walls and he slept on the couch with their door shut tight. What were they even fighting about when he swerved into the median, he wanted to know so bad.