Last night, I was thinking about my past, something I try to avoid. In a moment of self deprivation, I questioned my writing abilities and tried to decipher if I had any real talent. I think everyone with any sort of passion eventually questions this. We try to avoid it, but it sneaks up at the most inappropriate times, this was one of them. Me, trying to be Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Poe, trying to use wine as a way to lessen the self conflict, staying up until 3 am forcing myself into a moment of creative fury that never seemed to arrive.

My mother always wanted to me to be some sort of artist. While teachers, since I was in second grade, advised her to nurture my writing ability, she felt that it was my minimal talent in drawing that should be pursued. The perfectionist in me hates to paint, despises drawing. It frustrates me to no end. She, however, stuck me in art classes, all the while my teachers were reading my papers aloud to classrooms full of my peers.

I would love to start doing some art projects, but free time is few and far between lately. University art classes probably ruined me for life, in that, I hate the intensity and the lack of freedom I felt in these classes. What do you mean my apple doesn't look like an apple? It's called cubism. Asshole. I think I got burned from the intense criticism from professors. 

It's October. It's the anniversary of the death of my friend, Nick. Two years without him, it's difficult to fathom a world existing with him gone.  The earth still spins, it still moves and that is a so hard for me to believe. It's a concept my soul wants to deny.

I think about his family often. I think about how tragic it is to lose someone, a victim of their own hands, of their own pain. A family who will always be left with questions. I want to go to them and tell them that he is still here, he is still tethered to this line of memories that will never end, memories that connect us. It's a web, it's entanglement at its finest. 

I miss him.