What’s the most meaningful thing I can write today? You know how many times I’ve asked myself that question? So much that, sometimes, I ask myself why I even ask myself. It’s a slippery slope, this game of “What’s the point?” Too easy to arrive at “There probably isn’t one” in three iterations.
I took a walk through the village. Werner drove past me, right up the hill. Same old jeep, same old Werner. Werner looked 70 when he drove his grandson around 15 years ago, and for all I know, he’s still 70 today. He’ll probably drive him around long after I’m gone. Werner. Every time I catch up with him as he parks in front of his house, he greets me, and I greet back. Without fail, he asks: “Where are you going?” “Home,” I say, “up the hill.” And every time, Werner gives the same reply: “Ahh, now I remember.” Werner.
I wonder if anyone will say that about me. “Ahh, now I remember.” I don’t really care anymore, but, sometimes, the thought still lingers. I used to care so much. Now, all I want is to be useful. To share something that helps today, not 50 years later. Most of the time, I fail in doing that also. How could I succeed if the pressure was even higher?
Maybe, I just don’t bleed enough. Isn’t that what writers are supposed to do? “Sit at a typewriter and bleed,” Hemingway said. He sure bled a lot. James Altucher spilled his guts onto his blog, apparently. Is that what I’m missing? Guts? And why does spilling them cause bleeding? I thought it took guts to tell good stories.
My friends tell good stories. Some of them make a lot of money. Do only good stories make money? Is “money-making” the only good kind? I don’t think. I still wish my stories would make a lot of money. Or that I wouldn’t care about the money. Actually, they do. At least for most people. Funny how that works. So relative, this money game. Never enough, it seems. “Where are you going?” Good question, Werner. Good question.
I want to write every day. I do write every day. When I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing. When I’m not writing articles, I write emails, poems, journal entries, newsletters, captions, or text messages. Even when I’m just living, I’m writing. I think thoughts and do things and say words and feel feelings — and all of it is writing.
I feel so much, sometimes, I wonder if I’ll run out of feelings. If I’ve already felt everything. James says one day, he’ll run out of stuff. Out of guts. But not yet. I sure haven’t run out of feelings. I just sit there. Or stand there. I ogle at the sky. Can you ogle at something that’s infinite? Or is it just gazing?
How do I put this into words? How do I turn this ball of cosmic energy into something worth sharing? All I have is hands. I’m not Superman. How am I supposed to tame this thing? I try. I try anyway. I don’t know what’ll come of it. I just wrestle with the universe until I have something. Something I can hit like a tennis ball and hope it finds its mark. Maybe one day, it’ll light up the sky. More gazing. Ogling. Even Werner would see it. “Ahh, now I remember.”
What’s the most meaningful thing I can write today? I have no idea. But I keep asking the question.