Wayward Days of a Half-Past Decade

(Note: I’ve been writing a lot lately after a long break and found this unpublished piece in my Medium account upon logging in to post new work. It’s a snapshot of where my mind was five years ago. Not sure why I didn’t publish it then, but here it is now.)

So many days spent in coffee shops, telling myself I’d write, but never etching a single word. I always thought the café would be the key to unlocking me. Turns out, living in a prison of anxiety does a great job of locking up the creative process. So, I had to come up with an escape plan. And, in a way, it was a literal one.

This was long before it became trendy to work on your laptop in a coffee shop (though, later, I’d learn about the centuries-old tradition of writers seeking refuge in cafes and pubs — no clue about that at the time; I just needed a place to sit and pretend I was writing, anything but home). Back then, I was buying up notebooks and heading down to these aroma-filled sanctuaries, hoping to ditch the distractions of my depressing apartment and focus solely on my thoughts and words. Mostly thoughts, very few words. But in between the daydreams and distractions, a handful of words would spill out. The progress never looked like progress, but hell, it was. Maybe all of it was just one thing that only appeared like complacency on the surface — forward motion toward getting the words on the page.

Fifteen years later, I’m still here, not much further along, but I’ve got some personal victories under my belt. Closer to my dream than I was back then, even if that’s just delusion talking. There’s not much of a difference between reality and fantasy for a mind that oscillates between hope and despair.

I didn’t dream my way into the stories I was trying to write. That would have taken actual work — putting pen to paper. Daydreaming was just a break from the loneliness, failure, and boredom that seemed to occupy all the space in my head. But every so often, I’d snap out of it. The moment would come when I’d drag my eyes away from some random tree branch outside the window or the barista I was too shy to talk to beyond ordering my sugar-drenched disaster of a coffee, and finally focus on the page. And then, like turning a faucet, it would spill out. Not always — sometimes the faucet was stuck, and the idea of committing to the words felt like trying to pry open a rusted door. The weight of that commitment? Too much for a brain already drowning in existential misery (most of which, let’s face it, I earned).

But when it did come, it came. And there was something about it — something that felt like channeling something outside of myself. Looking back, though, I’m not so sure about that “cosmic muse” business. Maybe it was just the subconscious and conscious minds, swirling together in their own beautiful mess, responsible for the schlock that ended up on the page.

It’s gotten better over time. Maybe now the higher powers deserve some credit. Not sure I’m ready to give it to them though — after all, I’m the one who slogged through that never-ending shitstorm of a life. But lately, the victories feel a little more genuine. Even if they’re still buried neck-deep in depression.

Ah, that word again.