Wednesday, August 31, 2011


A well-groomed young black man talked about nothing in particular to anybody who would listen. He wore a blazer and jeans with a fedora and pointed boots. The glint of gold chains was visible through his mostly unbuttoned shirt. The rhythm of his speech was complimented by ZZ Top playing in the background, and he punctuated his thoughts with a puff of his cigarette. I thought to myself that if he were wearing shades he'd resemble Jones from A Confederacy of Dunces. Regardless, he was certainly a character. Anybody who loitered on the side of Buckeye Donuts at 3am on a Wednesday was a character.

I write a whole lot. Sometimes I am simply compelled to. The digital realm of my laptop is strewn with documents that I fill with a paragraph or two, or maybe just one lonely sentence, then saved to a folder akin to a junk drawer to be forgotten.

I doubt very much of my writing is good or interesting. I think I only write out of some bizarre form of self-preservation, that if I document small snippets of my life and thoughts that I've had, it will somehow make my life more meaningful or permanent. The thought of forgetting bits and pieces of my own life is frightening to me.

Or maybe it's just narcissism.