A man and his house
If one looks about the sky at a certain time of day, on a certain day on the calendar, in a certain place on the map, they'll see a small cloud floating by. The cloud is quite special, in its own right for atop its fluffy climax; it holds a man and his house. He is a normal man, bathes and shaves in the morning, eats toast with a little butter and jam, reads what literature he has while in the restroom, and even leaves for work after breakfast. The house is normal as well, it has no supernatural powers, it has lights that flick on and off with the touch of the switch, it has a glass window on each wall and a small porch out front. They simply float by, viewing the world from a large height. No one knows how it got onto the cloud, or how it stays on it. No one knows how the plumbing and lights still work either. They simply do.
You could call what the man does at work, 'work', but it really isn't. He simply walks through his door and strolls along avenues and alleyways of whichever city he floats over, thinking all day. He strolls and mosey's along, walks and rolls like a tumble weed. He is the epitome of there, but not. He doesn't interact with anyone, he doesn't bump into a beautiful woman and helps pick up her things, he doesn't step on the toe of a large angry man and is beaten. He simply
strolls. And then, when it becomes dark and he wishes to return home, he does, and he writes. He writes and he writes and he writes and he writes. He writes about what he saw that day, how the beautiful woman met a beautiful man and how you could feel the chemical reaction from the next block over, how the large angry man returned to his home and hugged his darling little child and finally smiled a large warm smile. He writes of jungle tribes in a desert country defending their home against an empire, he writes of a poor town cursed to never see a full sun rise and feel the suns rays, he writes of an Arabian magician who wishes to explore whatever is off the edge of the map, and of men and women who deal with the day to day, fighting for what they believe in, in a time of strife.
He has friends and family, those he knows and those who know him but none really reach him. He's too busy living on his cloud and strolling through towns and writing about the worlds that live in his head. He doesn't wish to be part of the world that lives beneath his cloud, he wants to be of the clouds above him. He wishes to be a god and create the worlds he knows better then his own. But of course he can't. So he settles. And he writes.
Now for the second part.
I sit down to write occasionally, but nothing comes out. I honestly want to write, but I just cant. I stare at my Microsoft word window and just zone out. I have a novel in mind, I know my general plot, but nothing in stone, and yet I can't get my head around it. If that's even the right expression, I've never quite understood it. Which sounds extra silly if its what I think it means. Apparently I'm a good writer, I'm imaginative, I'm funny, all that jazz, but I just can't write. I've never been able to. I've said that it was because it was a subject I didn't like, but still. I'm scared of moving forward, and writing is the only way I can think of to escape that fear. I have slight confidence in my writing, which is much more then any other confidence I have. If there is a writing god, let him/her/it zap my brain until nothing's left but my creative cells and put them into over drive. I don't care if I'm a vegetable laying in a hospital bed that just types and draws and paints away, even if its all bad. Let me express myself, let me work! Let me do something! I've been stagnate for my entire life, I've been pushed along until now and now I'm not moving at all. I'm an engine that lacks coal, a printer without ink, a stove without a pilot light or gas! What I'm saying is, I can express myself, I can. I just have no idea how. Maybe writing. I thought it was sketching before until I realized I was bad, or at least badgered into thinking I couldn't improve. I don't know which. I wish I could've been born in the village in New York, with three other writers as neighbors, and we could bounce ideas and works off of each other. Or Paris, or Sicily, or Toronto, or just a big creative center. I'm not a macho guy, my hands are as soft as a woman's hand, I've barely worked a day in my life, I'm a left brain 'imager', not a right brain 'thinker'. I don't think in words, I think in images, but I have no other way to show them except by squishing the square box into the round hole. I
. I'm really scared. I think I'll be alone forever, but then my dick takes over and then sex is on my brain and quells my fear of loneliness until its so late in the evening that the suns almost coming up. I'm creatively constipated, as gross as that sounds. I don't want to think about sex all the time, I just want to focus on my work. I want to forget about the world around me so I can make my own world real. I'm blathering on now, I once again lack a subject.
I want a woman who can give me drive. One who pushes me and makes me forget about everything except her eyes looking into mine. One who makes me shut off my peripheral vision and all I can see is her, her hair shining in the sun, the way her clothes drape off her body, and smell that wonderous smell of her skin. I don't want Amber, my first love, as much as I fool myself into thinking I still do. I might want Mabs but I don't know, it might be just her being nice to a shmuck like me and she happens to be gorgeous, or it might be actual like. Plus she doesn't like me all that much, I can tell. I am quite plague-ish in the ways of women. I'm like a sex based disease. I draw women in when we meet then they push away as soon as they know me personally. I wish I could focus. I need to stop whineing. That is misspelled but I don't care. I need an editor who can get me to focus. And fast.
Said blathering is my getting rid of all the words in my head so that i could bang out that bad short story.