You stopped writing. I’m not entirely sure why.
Writers talking about writing are only more obnoxious when they are complaining about not writing, I’ve found. But you’re not complaining and that worries me. She doesn’t return your calls anymore but it would be too easy to blame it on unrequited love. The only thing worse than not writing is becoming a cliché. You show up to work and you do the work and when you arrive home there isn’t anything left of you to give to the page.
You have no identity? No, you’re a drunk. When you wrote the drinking was set aside and ignored because it was more or less a means to an end. You never said it out loud but you told yourself you were an artist. The only thing worse than becoming a cliché is realizing you’ve been one all along.
I watch you get up in the morning and lay in bed longer, like you don’t want the day to begin. I see the empty bottles of booze and the dirty dishes on your carpet. You realize I am the only one that feels sorry for you. You would say it’s because you don’t need anyone’s pity but we both know that you’re lying to yourself.
Why do you continue to sleep with these women? The scratches on your neck, they aren’t medals, they probably won’t even scar. Nothing and everything you do seems superfluous. How is this possible? Am I missing something? I’m in that car with you during your 2 hour commute to work but I don’t know what you’re thinking but I know you’re thinking.
Have you lost your voice, your balls?
You don’t smile anymore. Not that you did a lot to begin with.
So, you hate your job? Who doesn’t? There was a time I felt entitled, felt life owed me more, I thought you had grown past that.
I know you’re uninspired. But you do nothing.
You’re fading away and I can feel it.
To think, you used to say you couldn’t change.
Do you ever wonder why everybody hates you?
It’s because I do.