I feel invisible. In the corner of the coffee shop-restaurant. I feel far away and unnoticed, that I haven't - quite/yet - found my groove in this secretly-textured city. It's fine to be invisible while seeking myself. While deciding which role, exactly, to play in this particular short novel of my life. Or is it a full length novel.
I've ordered breakfast to partner my cappuccino.
It's a low-slung grey afternoon with fine but steady rain that has soak-ability. I awoke with the cold front arriving, and with it's glacier slow march across the city and northwards across the country, my melancholy levels have shot the bucket.
[Don't edit now Charles. Come back with your left brain later; please don't get in the way now.]
I peer at me in the industrial-like mirror in the makeshift toilet, with its badly painted hardwood walls: I look at my stranger's face, at the red blemishes on my face from previous stress times, recently resurfaced. I shaved with a razor yesterday, the first time in years; I'm uncomfortable with my visages.
Scrambling to get my words down, the metal, square, triangular, circular words will not be forced throught the jagged mesh of my mind: nothing is sitting comfortably. Nothing is sitting at all.
Back at my table - for maximum two - in the furthest corner of this coffee/food realm I bite the complimentary baby chocolate brownie and bitterly gulp at the americano. I'm tasting myself in objects.
I participated in the Getaway Travel Blogging Conference last Saturday. I learnt not a thing new. Instead I realised I was there to question what my writing future holds; the future of this blog.
Why on earth should I be blogging at all?
I lost my focus a while ago, is what I was going to write as truth. However the truth is that my life has, in the last year, turned upon itself and began a process of self devouring: the voluntary cannibalism of self. All good though. I've long highlighted that I certainly screwed up the first half of my life, that the segind half I will continue doing things utterly differently.
To write? If so, to write what? And why? Who gives a fuck?