Writing life crisis

“What’s the point of writing if nobody can understand what you write?” I asked to this 19-year-old Dutch girl, annoyed by her concept of what “good writing” was. “Then you are not a real writer. Then you are just writing for somebody else, not for yourself,” she replied, with a winning smile on her face. I went silent. As silent as I have been for the last few weeks. The whole idea of writing lost its edge for me. Maybe I have heard the same line too many times already. “You are writing for somebody else.” Or I simply lost my inspiration. Perhaps I need a muse. Or to procrastinate productively, by following the bullshit path of The Writer: booze, drugs, women, sex, self-loathing and decadence. But I’m too old for it. Or I feel too old. At least I can sleep now. Unfortunately, insomnia was replaced with a fucked up case of stress/anxiety induced inflammatory bowel disease. Fuck my luck. No girl, soon to be homeless, experiencing another existential crisis and now fucked in the gut. And the summer that never seems to fucking arrive in bloody Copenhagen. And my swollen intestine, full of farts and burps and a plethora of gases unknown to Humanity.

I keep wondering what’s coming next. Is there a new woman lined up, about to change my life once again? Or is there some other kind of unexpected event about to happen in the near future? The unknown is exiting, at times, but usually it’s just irritating. Fuck the future. And fuck the present too. Nothing interesting going on.

I was stoned out of my mind this weekend. A semi-accidental incident involving a hash brownie took me on a trip to a dimension where things moved at a very slow pace, and the sight of windmills in the horizon, rotating ad-infinitum, calmed me down. Only for awhile, though. I was so numb that at some point I was more concerned with shitting my pants than enjoying the view. A man shouldn’t eat so much hash. Ever.

Fucked up bowels and all, I am in a good place. I keep forgetting that. It’s easy to get dizzy in the speed of the current times and the modern age, of goddamn smart phones and idiotic people, of dating apps and one-minute relationships, of ecologic food and not really giving a fuck about anyone other than oneself. Still, this is it. This is my motherfucking prime. In some years from now, my dick will stop working, my hair will turn gray and fall off, my mind won’t be of any use. This is it. The now. The here and now. #YOLO and shit. And farts. Lots and lots of farts.

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