Sure thing Neil Armstrong

I had to get something out in the hopes more will come

Sometimes it hurts.  To want so badly for the disparate debris between my ears to connect and make sense.  It’s hurt before.  At different parts of my life.  I go through periods of intense creative competition followed by what seems like a purgatory of white walls and ellipses.  I could perhaps think of why this might be as I struggle to even feign interest in writing this.   Burnout.  The epidemic of my generation; the collective discharge of energy associated with having not rested since I was 24.  Truly rested.  Whatever that is.  Pointlessness.  It’s safer to keep the things in my head, incomplete and perfect, than buy bad ink perhaps. Fear.  Or maybe the last one was fear?  Fear.  Of finding out the real reasons why sometimes I can beat Hemmingway at his own game and other times I can’t even find a stick.  I surely don’t know.  I want so badly to scare you.  I want so badly to write the next great American anything.  And when the wheels grind against belabored metal and seize; I can barely become a useful hammer.  They say, whomever they are, to just write and figure it all out later.  Sure thing Neil Armstrong, sure thing.