As I parked my car and as the sky shut its light and as the world closed its door ever so slightly I found myself adrift, both internally and externally, whatever the hell that means. I was confused. No, I wasn’t confused, I was muddled. My mind was fog. I was walking in every shitty direction and ending up nowhere.
My Bukowski novels were replace with Rich Dad Poor Dad books. My poetry had been replaced with positive affirmations and financial goals. I’d let myself be enveloped by my day job and had neglected my writing. I’d elevated myself so inadequately high and I had rendered myself so stiff and so inflexible that I could no longer bend over and touch the ground. I couldn’t even remember what the ground felt like. Was it cold? Was it warm? Was it damp, were there ants? But was that such a bad thing? Does my writing about love and sex and heartbreak and self pity contribute more to the world than working a nine to five, than managing a team, than attending business networking events, than managing a colourful LinkedIn page? As a writer I couldn’t afford my nice iPhone. As a writer I couldn’t afford to donate to the poor. As a writer I couldn’t afford to give people presents, to go one five-day holidays, to buy Christie a necklace. As a writer I was full of soul but full of self loathing. I didn’t want to be poor again. I didn’t want to borrow money from people again. Fuck being poor again!
I panicked. I ran to church and spoke to God in soft whispers. I looked at the cross in the distance and I asked the Lord, What next? What do I do? And I sped home and rummaged through my Holy Bible, and I read it, and I read it, and after hours of confused panic I settled with hours of Netflix and delicious Grain Waves, and I ate two packets of them, followed by delicious Tim Tams and Cornettos, and then I went to my phone and looked at my bank balance, and when it became difficult to stay awake I half-promised myself that tomorrow would be a better day.