but what would i even write about

what do i even have to say?

I’m sure I’m not alone, as I sit and (not-so) patiently await that serendipitous epiphany, the cliché of clichés. But there’s just something so saucy, so al dente, that I might just have to stay and sit with Her Majesty, La Cliché.

Hi, My Name is not important, but you can call me Charlie. I wish I had a jew fro like my grandfather, but that is neither hair nor there… alright you’ve caught me. That’s probably the lamest joke i’ve ever told.

Now that I know this is off to a good start, I’ll begin promptly.

Medium! What’s up dude? Long-time no-read. I mean you make writing seem so available, so abundant, I’m intrigued. So empty sits the page, longing for completion. Calling out “Charlie, devour me! See to it that I’m eaten”. “What I long for is mere purpose, my lovely boy Charlie. I’ve lost all direction, and these blank pixels so often lie to me”.

And how do I respond? Well, respectfully at best. I mean am I not typing now? Hence, taking that dreaded first step. I am sitting and I am listening, going through the movements of it all. Waiting for my moment, for that prophetic pen to fall — down into my lap and spill it’s ink kersplat! Gifting me the pleasure of sharing something personal, at the risk of sounding “all-that”.

“Ouch”, I exclaim! For my ego keeps pinching me. Prying my very fingers from each key individually. Just one of their many efforts in the quest to inhibit me. To keep me from speaking my truth, from offering a piece of what I cherish so intimately.

They’ll even try whispering sweet nothings at the back of the neck, but I’ve learned to swat em like a mosquito,

becoming nothing but a little nape-sweat.

I’ll be transparent with you now, let you in on a little not-too secret. It’s that I’ve spent far too many days crying and plea-ing with whatever gods, so that my hurt feelings they will accept. But supposedly it’s all just “part of the process” or at least it’s what they’ve told me. You have to sit with your power, the audacity to act boldly.

So here I go, months later. Forcing my fingers to continue, to trudge through the packed snow that is “making meaning” and letting myself journey a little farther than “just dreaming”.

I’m hitting the wall now. Of that I am sure. My mind’s gone foggy and my words are just blurs. So maybe I stop here. What’s the harm in that?

I wrote my first page on Medium... and hey, it wasn’t even “all that”.

ta ta for now