During the first decade of my life, when I was living at my parents’ house, there was an old man in our neighborhood. He was from somewhere rural and he was an old man for as long as I’ve known him. He didn’t really have a home. The few things I remember actually belonging to him include a thin walking cane he carried everywhere and the long-tailed khaki coat he wore all the time. Later my mother would give him a hefty Gabi that had once belonged to my father and a silhouette of anything resembling a tall, heavily wrapped human being holding a cane will forever remind me of him.
It feels like it’s been a while. It has been a while. I’ve been trying to reconnect and it hasn’t been going well.
It’s not that writing feels like work really, but that I’ve kinda become upset with the branding that has come with it. I have lost touch with it. I don’t want to do it. And it kind of sucks to see people who want to see me write become disappointed by the fact that I have given up something real to live this dream life and I have somehow managed to latch on-to a failure mentality before I’ve even started my career.
When I received a ping from my news subscription ten mornings ago that smart man Stephen Hawking had died at the age of 76, I decided to play a small game with my Facebook feed called, “Which friend will share the most heartfelt soliloquy”