Who here is going through some shit? Show of hands?
Thank you for your sympathies and get well soon cards, but I changed my address.
I have moved to the moon.
I know. Why make such a dramatic change? If you know me, you wouldn't be surprised. Extremes are my thing. Depression is a bitter old friend who gets me and laughs at my darker jokes. This move is less dramatic and more a healthy decision. I was born in a different atmosphere, you see. I need to reacclimate.
I'm generally very in touch with my emotions. I think you sort of have to be if you want to be a good writer, right? But things are kind of gray here on the moon. Which is comforting. I need it, I think. When there's too much shit. Sometimes I get frustrated with other writers who seem to have all their shit together. I look at their tweets and posts and updates and a little voice in my head says to me, "Hey, dummy. You. There we go. Hey, go buy their book just so we can watch it burn on the moon."
What a wretched little voice? I can't help listening to it, I think. It's one of many, but it's often the most honest. Because, successful-author-dude, you're not real to me. Where's the shit? Where're the demons who haunt the shadows off of you? The skeletons that rattle around in the closet?
Because writers have to have demons and skeletons, right?
Unlike you, sir, I don't have time to have my shit together. Time is like these space vapors all around me. The unknown. Hallucinatory. Are you even real? Or do things just look wrong from the moon? It's hard to tell. I've got too much sodium and potassium gas seeping into my brain. Far too much moon dust in my eyes to see things the way I used to.
Maybe my eyes are the problem. A skeleton doesn't have eyes, which sounds nice.
Sometimes I think life would be better if I lived as a skeleton in a closet. Just me in my rectangular home. Where the heart is. Nothing and everything at once. Of course, I'll need a typewriter to tell a great old story. And extra ink. And paper. And a toilet. Dammit, this isn't feasible. Unless skeletons don't need to... y'know... do their business.
Sorry, that was ill-mannered. I tend to say the wrong, least polite thing most of the time. That's also my thing. I think that's why I needed to be removed from society, I think.
Removed in a good way, don't panic.
"Depression guy talking in depressed talk says he needs to be removed or something, call in the white-jacket men. This guy isn't bending to the light in the same way we are, prepare the straight jacket! He needs to be like us!! Hurry!!"
I don't like your gravity though. I guess I've never experienced it the same way.
Doesn't life on the moon sound so wonderful? To unplug.
To stop the electricity from turning us into cyborgs.
To hit pause, but with finality.
To look up, take stock of the blue world out there, and see what really matters.
That sounds nice.
But it's unrealistic.
I'm already a cyborg.
How else can I live on the moon?
And every day, my little gray world keeps revolving.
And my gears keep grinding away.
Rinse and repeat.
But I'm not going anywhere!
So what then? Who am I?
I am writer's block.
I am the main character in a book on pause.