In Which Life Slows Down And I’m Left To Actually Deal With Things

Sometimes I get in these moods, ones where I feel like I’ve completely fallen behind on everything life has told me to catch up on. It’s usually during the aftermath of something wonderful. Maybe after two months straight of weekends that I’ll later describe as “the best times of my life.” Times when hangovers are worth every minute of uninhibited laughter. Times when money has been fleeting, despite not making enough to cover it. Times when I don’t care about anything other than that exact moment I’m in.

And then it catches up. All the things that were supposed to be polluting my head come crashing down on me as if to say, “Hi, I’m here, can you pay attention to me now?” It catches up a lot when I’m alone for a long period of time after not being alone for a long period of time. When the world around me has quieted down and I can finally step back to hear the own buzzing in my head.

And sometimes I look back on that whirlwind of living in the moment and I see it littered with some questionable choices. I see that, at certain times, I could have talked myself into running towards the sun, if I really put my mind to it. I felt fearless and triumphant and invincible. And, then, maybe I’ll watch a movie. Or three movies. Because I’m home alone on a Saturday afternoon after having too much whiskey and someone was sharing my bed the night before, so I’m tired and my defenses are down.

And I’m watching movies and I can’t tell if I’m disappointed in myself or if I’m inspired. Which is a weird distinction, because you wouldn’t think those two could be confused. But, when you think about it, severe disappointment can cause an incredible amount of urgency that swirls you into a fit of productivity, as if this is mother nature’s very own coke high.

Because I get in these moods, the calms after the storms, and I feel like this is the day. This is the day where I’ll write my book. I’ll lock myself up in my apartment and my eyelids will go black because I won’t sleep until the manuscript is shipped off to every publisher I can think of. This will be the day that I write love letters to every boy that’s ever had a stronghold on my heart. This will be the day that starts everything, the day that I’ll look back upon and say, “I remember this one day where I wrote the best thing I’ve ever written in my entire life.”

It’s like a fire boils inside my stomach and I feel so overwhelmed with inspiration that instead of actually writing the best thing I’ve ever written, I end up pacing the apartment, drinking gallons of water in an effort to give my body something else to do other than feel let down. And I watch another movie. And the next day, that same boy comes over again and I forget about the fire and find myself smack right in the middle of another day in which the moment, the seconds, the milliseconds, are the only things that matter.

And so it goes.

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