A thin man stooped over a pad of paper, scribbling, stopping a few minutes to read over and think, and scribble some more.

“At the moment I have little idea of what discourse will arise from this document, but I am of the upmost hope it will sooth my mind. I have been attempting to write for a while but naught comes to mind. Is this something I should worry horribly about? What does it mean? I feel like there once was a day when I could have written eloquently and quickly with flair and flow. But nowadays I sit around twirling my pencil, stuck on a single line, debating what the best wording for it is. I do manage to find a good sentence and move on to write a few more paragraphs. But over the course of a day? How am I to be a writer when I only write a page a day? Even children can write several pages in an half hour over their thoughts and frustrations without any doubt or hesitation on their mind. So why cannot I? This, my frustration, I have managed to write over the course of an hour. It looks hardly over half a page! Woe is me for I have no more on my mind to write of besides this. It fills my mind yet I cannot put it on paper. Others ask me what is bothering me. I tell them this or that. Sometimes that I am merely feeling tired and other times that I merely didn't feel very well. They all look at me, watching. I know they care and wish me not to be sick, or at least to know what was wrong so that they could help the best they can. How am I to tell them if I cannot even write a full page of it on paper?

So now a new paragraph. That should be good. I feel that I have covered an entire subject on my last. Now I wonder how writers manage so many paragraphs in a single work when I can only write a short one on a single subject, and only a few of those a day at that. But that aside, this journal should be more full of the more recent events. Amanda has been doing well. She had caught some type of flu and I spent the entire week nursing her back to health. She appears vibrant again. Her cheeks are flush and rosy, her face full, and when she talks of things she seems interested and knowledgeable. I wish I could feel the same about her subjects. After a minute I tune her out and fall into some sort of day dream. I never seem to remember my day dreams afterward though. Is that strange? Is it strange how much of my day I actually remember? What did I do today? Lets see... I got up this morning. I remember that. Did my normal morning routine. Started the coffee maker, a short walk to the park and back, showering and shaving, dressing, then watched whatever is on television awhile or read the posts of a few celebrities I follow. Miley Cyrus has really been out of hand lately. Then I wake Amanda. She goes to bed much later than I so I let her sleep in a few hours. Back to television. I remember years ago, about the time Amanda and I married, I would make breakfast for her and kiss her as she left for work. Now with all the shortage of time she picks up breakfast at a fast food restaurant and I don't notice when she slips out.

Is it weird how people change over time? I remember being muscular and energetic in my younger days, but this morning I realized how thin I am. I must have dropped fifty or sixty pounds since my youth. I would say that I am getting old, but mid-thirties isn't that old is it? It must be this sedentary life style. I sit a lot. Either I'm sitting and watching TV, sitting and reading, or sitting and writing. And I don't do much reading or writing anymore either. So just a lot of sitting and watching. Surely there is more to life than sitting and watching?

On a lighter note, I have found a wonderful new series. It is another survivalist show, but it is deeper than all the old ones. Some of the people admit they are feeling lonely and sad. And a lot of the players have psychological problems too. One guy, Andy, has OCD or something like that and can't stand living on such a dirty island. I knew a guy named Andy once. He was really mean to me, but I liked him anyway. His family was really rich and people would always crowd around him to see his new toys. Sometimes I wondered how people liked him when he was so rude, but I found myself attracted to him too. When he rebuffed me I would usually walk away and write something to soothe myself. It didn't always work so well but I started to like writing a lot. It is something you can do anytime, without others, and spill your entire mind onto paper without worrying about being criticized. Now I hardly find that joy. Need I a new Andy?

The clock on the wall says it is eight now. I thought Amanda finished work at seven, but she isn't here yet. Is she always slow to come home? Or maybe she normally works this late? Normally I am watching TV when she comes back so I don't notice the time. Maybe her work held her back late. Sometimes she says her boss holds her back to file papers some nights. Mr. Hancock I think was his name. So she goes upstairs to shower and change and I order delivery. It isn't like we don't have food in the house, its just that time is short and cooking takes a while. After she comes down, she eats and we enjoy some television time together. I sit in my super comfy chair and she sits near the end of the couch where she sets her elbow on the rest and plays with her hair. She doesn't care what we watch so I typically flip it to the cartoon channel. We used to watch the cartoon channel all the time and laugh together at the silliness of the characters. I looked over at her last night during the commercials. Her face was glazed over as if she was in a deep day dream. I watched her face awhile. It didn't change much when the cartoons started. She didn't laugh when the characters did something stupid. Now I wonder if she is like that every night. And what is running through her head? What thoughts? Is it business? When I go up to bed she stays downstairs. I wonder how long? I'm always asleep after a few minutes after crawling into bed. I must be dead asleep when he comes up, she's never woken me.

In looking over at my writings I find that I skipped over what a large part of my day was. I am a writer. I read some on a far off topic that has been ignored in life and blog a short article on what people should pay attention to. Lately even that has been coming to a halt. I try to read the articles, but they put me to sleep. And when it comes to the blogging itself I can find little more words than, “Who would bother reading this?” It still generates enough income to pay for the food, but Amanda pays most of the bills: house, car, cable, electric, heat, water, etc...


I just heard a loud bang. I'm scared. If I don't return to this writing: Mom, Amanda, and other family I love you all. I have lived my life.


I thought the neighbors were having a gun fight, but it was just a car backfiring. A gun fight wouldn't be too unusual in this junky neighborhood. I think it has technically slumped into the word 'ghetto'. My neighbors don't do much, so I'm always hoping they might do something spectacularly violent and bloody to each other. It would be good entertainment and maybe the new neighbors would be better. The husband is a slob that stays at home and grows his stubble out. I think he spends all his time doing garage start up businesses that continuously fail. The wife does the work. When she comes home late she seems a bit unhappy. Probably because he doesn't pay any attention to her. The least he could do is come out to see her when she came home, kiss her, and ask her about her day. I used to go to school with her too. Her name escapes me at the moment but she was sweet the few times that we talked. I think she deserves better than him. No sweet girl deserves such an unloving husband. Maybe that is what she is thinking when she is walking up her driveway, about how much she hates her life.”

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His pocket vibrated. He took his phone out. He had a text message,
“An invitation to your fifteen year high school reunion came in the mail” ~ Amanda. He texted back,
“Not going.”
“Y nt?” ~Amanda
“Never made friends there. Don't really like those people”
“Ok” ~Amanda
He heard the shower start upstairs. He sighed for a second and went back to his scribbling.


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“Amanda just came home. It is a bit after ten. We just had a short conversation on going to a high school reunion. She knows I don't have any friends there. And how awkward and out of place I would be! If someone took the time to ask what I did with my life I would say that I became a writer. That would would be fine enough. But what if they asked what I wrote? If I told them I wrote internet articles would laugh at me? When everyone compared salaries would I have to shrink away? Or what if they asked what I did with my time. All the answers would be the same. I write for a living and I watch TV. Sometimes I watch the neighbors and occasionally I text my wife. What oh what have I been doing with my life?”

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The thin man stood. He had spent his entire day scribbling at the notebook only to have written a few pages. Compared to the past year this those few pages were a hefty amount written in one day. He stretched and decided he actually wanted to do something. He wanted to do something. Something good. Something important. He didn't want to be like his neighbor with his continual failure nor with his miserable life. He went into the kitchen, made a nice meal, fed his wife, had a good time with her, they forgot the TV, went to bed together, and a few weeks later went to that high school reunion. Life came back together.