Do you know why I write? I write because somewhere down the line my fear of writing turned into love. Fearless. It happened in college when I realized I may not actually suck at everything in the universe..ever. And if it is true love, to love doing something, you can also ignore something or someone you love everyday. You can toss it aside, forget it exists, dismiss it, sigh when you think about it because it makes less and less sense every time you try to find it. But writing is what I imagine shooting a gun to be when you’re good at it. Unforgettable,when it works its easy, fun, and pretty much makes you forget death ever had a say in how you lived your life. I had a professor in college that believed in “death philosophy.” He claimed that people did everything they did because they were afraid to die but honestly I don’t even think about it. His argument was that we do but its completely subconscious most of the time. But I’m not afraid. The funny thing about getting older is that you make room for death. You make the bed, put on the kettle and say….when you get here you can stay in the guest room until its time for us to go.
There must be a reason reapers make an appearance in films, stories, television. The reaper, who the fuck is the reaper? The guy that pressed “E” on the elevator for “Earth” the ghost that wanders among the living, plucking them from oblivion, from the unknown. Existence is unknown because a world of Walmarts and candy wrappers, movies and sunshine on your way to a chain restaurant isn’t living….and I guess it isn’t dying.
Maybe the scenario I just described is just Jersey. Literally New Jersey, lol. Maybe its what we all feel when the heart keeps pumping, the breath come in and the life just isn’t right one, the scent is off, elusive, stale.
Writing is a weird thing to write about, I’m sorry. Never talk about TV when you’re on TV, never talk about writing when you are writing, never talk about acting when you’re in a play.
Never blog about blogging when blogging. Taboos.
Sometimes I feel like when I write something honest, the reaper would laugh, he’d laugh at all the things I happened to be aware of,, then he’d pour us a shot and we’d wipe away tears before veering down the hallway and through the backyard.