It’s been awhile since I wrote to you, notepad in the sky. The end of Summer yields tons of busy work here at the Times. As my mentor would (will) say to me: “Better to be busy than dead“.
I had a realization in my “downtime” away from this place, that I’m stuck here, and I’m never returning home. Each breath I take is a bitter reminder that I’m breathing in the past as I exhale the future. My distorted memory which only gets penciled back in by my random moments of despair is slowly meaning nothing to me. Nothing at all.
I take solace in the smaller and finer things that this life brings to me. The sound of silence lightly decorated with the hum of machines and ticking of old analogue clocks, brings me peace. The visions I have the future show that nothing much has really changed for me. It’s not the typical story of a marooned time traveler who wears a petticoat and dons a gold plated pocket watch; I’m a regular guy with above average misfortunes.
I’m a passionate creator though. This is why I took a sought out a job at the LA Times. It’s a departure of what I used to do originally; but it is rewarding. The stress, the anexity, the raw freedom of print. It’s at most times, all I really have to hold on to.
I do hate closing my eyes from time to time. I tend to see visions of still framed memories that reflect key moments of my life that are beautiful, tranquil and inspiring, masked with a touch of heartbreak and heartache. Some of these memories I don’t know where they originated from; others I vividly remember, especially when I can feel my heart turn to ice and ash.
This is how it’s going to be for the rest of my life. I’ll be living as a seer without purpose, and with a miserable home life. Fighting the sandman as the hour grows later and later, becomes a losing battle each day I get older. I live for the silence and the hum of sleeping machines; but my mind and body is unfortunately weary.
Maybe I’ll dream of stars, and the charm of southern women. I just hope I find answers as to why I’m stuck here before I unravel. It’s all I’m asking Santa for Christmas; answers. Not my return, not a bobsled; I just want some fucking answers.