I wrote this this morning in the coffee shop. This place used to be hopping, before Covid. Now? Not so much…..(again, nearly completely unedited from what I just sat and wrote).
This notebook
It should be filled
Filled with observations
Poems. Thoughts.
But it’s an old notebook
From when I first got laid off!
Its pages are filled with
Advice.
Job search advice.
Ideas for side hustles (all bad)
Even
the rare
Interview notes.
I’m both depressed
And amused
Finding an old notebook
is like a trip to the past
A different time.
Even a different me.
I feel like a different me.
Not just because I write now.
I don’t “work” now.
I still feel that way.
Two years into creating.
I still feel that way.
Like I’m not working.
Not being all that I can be.
And I realize
as I write
I’ve never really fully committed
to THIS life.
This writer’s life.
And I wonder if I ever will.
Will I work on a schedule?
Commit like I di my office jobs?
Or will I
continue to feel like I’ve
somehow let the world down
I’m not on the career ladder
Anymore.
I’m not the bread winner
Anymore.
I’m not important
Not anymore.
Not in the way the world, my family, my friends
co-workers, even enemies,
especially ME
once thought I was
Important. Influential. Powerful even.
Now I’m just a guy.
Trying to write.
And I often wonder…..
Is that enough?
Will my writing matter
if no one reads it?
Even if they do?
Especially if they do?
This notebook.
I should probably fill this notebook
with new thoughts.
Is that enough?