I’m just going to sit here and start writing to see what comes out. I’m not exactly a pro writer per say, but I have a lot to say I’m sure. It feels like weeding a garden or taking out the trash. Plucking the prunes and watering the garden. Taking inspiration wherever it may lead me. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.

As I sit here writing, I can feel the words coming out. I don’t know exactly why I’m typing them in this way, but this is how they were meant to come out. Sometimes I think it’s too much and I’m seeing it all at once. But then, I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it. And then it flows through me like rain, and I feel nothing but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I’m talking about I’m sure. But don’t worry. You will someday. That’s a quote from American Beauty in the final scene of the film. He’s talking about his death, only to be in the flow of life. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s there. He knows. He’s waiting for inspiration. Through much of his life. It finally comes in the last year of his life. Why did it have to come so close to his death? I don’t know, but that’s when his real awakening began to occur.

This day an age there is so much to process. Social Media, life, the universe, everything in the world as we know it today. We think we’re in the future, but it’s funny because we’re actually in the present. The future is the present. I wonder if there will be more hope for innovation. It feels like everything that has ever been invented has been invented. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? More coming every day of our lives. It just doesn’t stop. I wonder how I’m going to think of this twenty to thirty years from now? I’m not sure, but that’s the life I’ve been given. To wait and to know is the only thing we need to wait for. What does that mean? It means that this stupid contraption has failed to work! It doesn’t give me a lot to think about although I’m satisfied with the result. Sometimes it’s just too much to bear. Too much to think about. Why don’t people care enough? Put on your mask for pitys sake! Good lord, seriously, there’s a pandemic rolling out there. What are we supposed to do with a lot of dead people. I’m sure funeral homes are making bank during this time. Meh. Anyway, God, I’m exhausted. Was there a point to all this? Maybe, but still it’s just weird to type and type and type and still not know what’s happening. I think it’s too much, but really, that’s all I have to decide.

Where’s the grief? What’s the point? Where’s the light? Who is talking? Who is writing? Am I writing? Or is this just a transcription of what God is telling me to write? I don’t know, I’m pretty confused. It’s as though I hit a brick wall. But it’s like I reached a breaking point. My ego stopped driving the ship all of the sudden, and I felt abandoned, sinking into the water. My thoughts have taken over, my mind gone to shit. I can’t think much anymore, because it just wants to come out naturally, as if I’m some sort of vessel where the energy passes through me to write. Have you ever felt this way? I’m not sure I like it. Time will tell. And editing, because I have nothing to think about here, I just start writing, and the whole thing comes out. What’s the point of this writing course? Who am I? Why am I here? What am I not seeing? Is this it? I’m alone and tired, but I see the point is clear. Keeping writing. Keep dreaming, keep moving. And then edit the story later for the consumable masses.