Funny How Time Flies

Not everyone thinks that they have all of the time in the world. In fact, some people believe that every day could be their last. I am not sure how to categorize these people. Are they optimistic because they live like each day could be their last or are they pessimistic for thinking that every day could be their last? I guess that I am in the middle of this bunch. I don’t think about death and dying either way…until I am working on something significant and the time seems to fly by, and I am still working, and it seems like my work is in the same place that I started it in, but the hours, days and weeks are flying past. This gives me anxiety, and I start to think crazy thoughts.

Thinking about living and dying comes into play. I have been writing for so long, and it has not been until recently (the last five years) that I even allow strangers (probably you) to read my work via a blog. I remember the very first post I put up. It took me about three weeks to hit publish. I went and looked at it every day. I checked for grammar and spelling and all of that good stuff. I talked myself out of posting it every day. I told myself no one cared. I asked myself why I was doing it? What was the goal? Why the hell? I wish I could explain my reasoning, but I went to work one day, and there was this situation that I had been dealing with on the job. I got so angry. I cry when I’m mad instead of when I’m sad. Yeah, I was crying in the bathroom. I left early. I had to go, or I was going to say or do something that I would regret. I was so mad that when I got home I read my blog post and I thought, you know what? Fuck this. Publish. Then I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how to unpublish it, but it was too late. I had been talking about my blog, and my one of my friends texted me and told me that she read my post. I wanted to melt into the chair. That was all she said.

So I spent the next hour waiting for her to text me something else. Anything else. She hated it. She loved it. She didn’t have an opinion (impossible). I don’t know; I just needed something. When she told me that it took her an hour to text me because she wasn’t sure how to tell me how proud she was of me, I lost it. This time I was crying because I was happy. I was thrilled. Then my sister read it, and she told me that she loved it. I was overjoyed.

I hate to admit that it took a really bad experience to push me into a really good one, but that is what happened. Looking back at my life It has always taken a lot to push me. I have come a long way regarding confidence, but that has nothing to do with my writing. I am not afraid to share my writing because of a lack of confidence; I am scared to share my writing because it is personal. I birth this stuff. I have placenta to prove it. If someone reads my writing and doesn’t like it, then it is like someone looking at your baby and calling it ugly. You understand that right?

People are funny. Some people really want to see you make good, while others are only interested in your failures, some others don’t care either way. I guess you could say that people are like thoughts about death and dying. One thing I know for sure is that no matter how long you live, life is short and because of that we have to make the most of our gift. I don’t have the time to be stagnated or to feel like my work is not progressing. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph is a step toward completion. A completion that I will no longer keep to myself, I sign every blog post, “The Writer,” and so it is.

Peace and love,

The Writer

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