Why are you staring at me? What do you want? You beg me for words; yet your cursor blinks at me as though it’s tapping its fingers on a table. You wait for any thought to come pouring out on you; any memory to come tumbling onto your page. You expect my opinionated mind to overbear you with words that may seem controversial. You haunt me. You make me feel guilty for leaving you alone; leaving you with only a shade of white. It’s my blank mind vs. your blank page. I got nothing.
Three quarters into my second book, and I run out of fuel. Did the story end? Do I leave you here with just the remains of what’s been done? Incomplete. The word that sometimes describes my life. The incomplete book just reminds me of so many unfinished projects. Isn’t that a sign of bi-polar disorder? I think it’s one of the side effects of having A.D.H.D. as well. I’ve been over-diagnosed and overly sensitive to everything and anything.
Incomplete. Let’s go back to that word that explains so much. What’s missing? I feel like three quarters of my life ran away from me—just like my second book. Unfinished, unresolved, and still missing words. I’ll never finish it, if I don’t focus on it more. Is that the answer to the rest of my incomplete life? Do I have to focus more on what’s missing, than to focus on ‘what I have now’?
They say, “Be happy with what you have ‘now’.” That doesn’t apply to finishing a book though. I need to finish it--to complete it. What about something that’s missing in your life? Does it need to be finished in order for it to be a successful written 'novel?' Or is it just the ‘experience’ that we’re after?
How can I be happy, if my life is incomplete? Yes, I have enough, but a huge part of me is missing. I’m much like my second book. I’m sitting here waiting for the words to come pouring back in; fulfilling my empty pages. Occasionally a few words get tossed onto a page, but it’s not enough. I want more. My book needs more. We’re both going through the same thing. We’re sad, and missing pieces in which we need to survive.
We’re both missing our billet-doux, from the one who makes us complete. Maybe I’ll just abandon this page, which glares at me each morning. Maybe it’s just that I’m way too pusillanimous to go forth with completing the task. Maybe the one which completes me is in fact—a coward.
Oh the hell with it! Who gives a flying rat’s ass? If it’s not finished—if “I’m” not finished—what does it matter? Enjoy the journey, right? Enjoy each moment of your life, because it’s way too short. I was unfinished—I was left without height. Standing 5’3—does that make me incomplete? Naw…just makes me a little shorter than normal. Can it be fixed? Sure! Three inch heels are great. My back hurts as well. We can replace whatever’s missing, can’t we? Make up for our shortcomings? We can write words we don’t mean, or say words we don’t hold in our heart. Does that make it complete? Do my three inch heels make up for my lack of height? Do the ibuprofen and chiropractor visits fix the pain in my back, which the heels have caused?
See what happens when I’m sober? I overanalyze and think way too much.
I need a drink.
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