Glue Glue Glue

I finished Hey, Nostradamus while sitting in the waiting area for my flight between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. this morning... yesterday morning. I haven't slept at all since two days ago. Flying on that jet and attempting to sleep was like attempting to sleep in a metal coffin strapped to rocket boosters as I hurtled through the umbra. I've flown many times, but I've always been uneasy in aircraft, as a passenger.

Airplanes are the safest means of travel in the world, but the margin for survival in the face of that seemingly infinitesimal chance of something bad happening is almost zero. After reading a story that showed how death can create such ripples and dysfunction, I just couldn't sleep. Instead, I spent my entire flight watching television -- probably more TV in one sitting than I've watched all year.

Mostly, I just sat and thought about the book I had just read, how it, in its sublime ways, illustrated so many thoughts of my own that I've been grappling with for the last few years, and how even like it's subject material, the book breaks formula, and spits on any kind of equation that would, in theory, bring closure to the reader. It was a story within a story, and even then, though it's fiction, it weaves outwards too.

It gets you to thinking about your own dysfuctions, and about the things that broke you or made you better. It puts into perspective the dramas of our lives, and shows that even the most crooked people have their reasons for appearing so.

The book was inspiring, but on the same note, it got me to thinking about how futile my own craft has become. I can write words, great tales, and accurate recountings of events. But lately, it seems that I'm just not able to write about what I'm thinking or feeling, at least not without the urge to clip certain parts or crop the truth, or add dramatic flourishes to emphasize certain points.

I don't feel comfortable writing about penetrating matters anymore. It always invites the wrong type of criticism, and to be frank, I'm not interested in having anyone else cross-examine my flaws as a human being. I'm already painfully aware of each and every one down to microscopic fucking detail. Instead, I'd... just once, like to be able to write something honest and clean and true, and feel that weight come off my conscience like it used to.

Maybe each night while I'm out here, I'll write about something. Like I used to.