An Article of Brooding Arrogance

I feel strange sometimes, as though my life is simply a long wait for something to happen. At work I have a calendar and I cross of each day with an X, people who see it asking me what it is I am waiting to happen and I just shrug, because I don’t know.

Day follows day, the nights are eternal sometimes other times I have drunk myself into a stupor and they pass mercifully quickly.

What does my life hold for me?

I know what I want, I know my own hopes and dreams, I know my own soul and spirit and even my own strength though I wonder if I genuinely have the conviction to push myself continually forwards in pursuit of them, it would be far easier to sit back and live a comfortable though somewhat boring life doing nothing in particular with dreams only of normality.

I find it hard to sleep.

All day at work I am tired, I drink cups of coffee to keep my eyes from closing, today I found my head resting on my arm while at my desk and got up to pour myself another cup, but at night it’s a different story entirely. The night comes and I find myself alone, tortured by mental images of the man I wish to be, the dreams I dream while my eyes are open, the world I wish to make for myself. These waking dreams are irrepressible, if only they weren’t.

It starts with a book about me, I don’t know where it ends.

I have started the book but I can’t find the ending, or even the middle. There are so many books by so many authors, I wonder if there is enough room for another book by another author.

It feels terribly arrogant for me to write in this way, I ask myself over and over again “who am I to think in this way? What evidence have I that I even know how to write? That there is anyone interested in reading the words I place on the page?

I wrestle myself down to the computer every time I attempt to write, I force myself to place the words on the screen with no knowledge as to whether they genuinely impart the meaning to the reader that my mind insists they possess. Who am I to write? Who am I to expect to impose myself upon the thoughts and dreams of the millions I am attempting to reach?

If I write my book and publish it that will not be enough. If the book is not of a monumental success to put every other book ever written to shame it will not be enough.

I am scared of what the future holds.

I should not be.

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