Lies that life is black and white

I am sitting in a penthouse suite in a hotel in Toronto and all I can think about is going home.

And writing.

When I was a boy my dad told me I was a serious child. So serious that I seemed to be skipping anything resembling a childhood.

I was too old for my age.

I'm younger than that now.

A lot of that concern came from my insistence that I be alone so much. And that I spent so much of that time writing.

I think he was afraid I would end up alone as an adult.

Thing is, I love being alone. I love the friends in my head. The stories I tell myself that keep me floating for hours on end. That was very real for me.

Then it happened that he read a lot of the things that I wrote and it scared him. To the point there was a fucking intervention.

So I stopped. Writing. For a long time. The friends and the stories in my head never left me. They were just... stuck.

And while I have spit out the occasional short story here and there, they always feel... not quite finished.

I have two I have been rattling around in my head on the road the last month. They feel like gut punches the way they play out. The notes and quotes I've jotted down make me feel things I don't always like feeling. That's oddly reassuring.

When I get home I need to finish things I have put off because of fear. I have no more time for fear. I cannot leave these things undone.

For now, I need sleep.

I love this life I have. But it will be over soon. I cannot waste any more of it.

Titty sprinkles!


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