out and about

maybe my big problem isn’t that i’m running out of things to write about. i’m just running out of places where i can write. even places where i can write that i am running out of things to write about.

the paragraph above was the byproduct of giving up. giving up on finding the ideal place to write. migrating from place to place today has not taken me very far

i can’t write in my apartment because it’s too isolating.

i can’t write in a library because they can sometimes feel too oppressive.

i can’t write at a Starbucks because i can’t stand the piped-in music which is never in the background. or I’m immersed in overhearing someone else’s conversation.

i can’t write in the little wi-fi cafe area of my gym because there are children and parents climbing the climbing wall and they often make a lot of noise, which is difficult to write above. But that certainly isn’t their fault. i’m the one who chose to try to write there.

i hear there might be lots of other places where one can write, places that are not apartments, or libraries, or starbucks, or gyms. there are places without wi-fi. maybe without wall outlets.

but i can only write somewhere i can take my laptop, and it’s critical that I have some sort of Internet connection because i’ll start to write something and i’ll use a word that i’ve never heard of, and since i don’t carry a dictionary with me, I have to look it up online. Same deal with a thesaurus.

and since writing is always this grand victory over the distractions that accumulate throughout the day, i have to put myself in optimal situations that will allow these distractions to bloom and flourish. otherwise there would be no victory.

i vaguely recall taking my little journal book out to the sea, or up in the mountains, or in the deep thickets of the rainforest. but i would find myself so awestruck by the natural world that i would not realize i had neglected to scribble even a dot until i returned home. back in my apartment. where i knew for sure i would never write.

so i really don’t know where to go anymore. i would ask you if i could borrow your studio or your living room or your garden. but then i’d be worried that i’d be letting you down if i came up empty. And I’d think…. “great, now how do I rise above that?” But maybe now you can understand why i never invite myself over.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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