Seven hundred and fifty words.

It does not sound like a lot. But when you sit down and begin to type, sometimes that number seems so far away. Kind of like a lost lover or a far away place. Something you loved once, but either threw away or got thrown away by.

Places usually don’t do that. It’s what happens in those places that do it.

I’ve been in love with places before. Each one of them saw devastating things happen there. One of them still holds a piece of me. The others, not so much.

People. They come and they go. Usually then end up gone. If you live long enough, that’s guaranteed. There’s nothing profound in that. Been said by a thousand other people who sat down with a pen, a pencil, a typewriter, a laptop, a tape recorder. But it matters.

That’s what is important really. Mattering. Giving a damn. Showing up. Then running away.

How many stick it out anymore? Is that something we should do? Shouldn’t do? Depends?

I think one day I’ll be wearing them. Seems fitting. Seems to fit?

I hate that underwear keeps changing. I want to buy the same kind I bought in 2001. They fit right. Ones now are too tight in one place, too loose in another.

Trivial thoughts. They dominate a lot more now than they used to. Attention span too short? Probably.

If I got in my car right now and started driving, I don’t know which way I’d go. I used to know. Now I never know.

April now is a marked month. April 2023 will go down as the time I realized too much. But I still find myself working too much, eating shitty food and drinking soda. Do we really ever learn a damn thing?

I promised my mom some things while I watched her slowly die in April. One was I’d read at least a book a week (on average). I’ve read 10 so far, working on two others. Little behind, of course, but by April 2024 I’ll be back in the swing of reading as a priority instead of an obligation. Terrible word for it.

The other was her cat. I don’t think I’m going to be able to follow through on that one. And I feel like a shitty person. I know my sister or my niece or someone else will make a good home for Celeste, but I really wanted to.

Thought when we had to put Jasper down in early June that would allow for us to do it. Guess not. It’s the first thing, really, that’s made me bitter. That worries me. Should it? Nah. But it does.

I’m trying to start writing again. Too.

That was one of the other things I promised her. I miss doing it. Sadness has always been the reason I start up again. This qualifies, for sure. But why did it take me so many days to start? I think it has to do with that number – 750. That was the number I set back in my isolation years. I stuck to it pretty well, most of the time. Not all of the time, but much better than the past decade for sure.

I also told my mom to haunt me if she was mad at us. We made a decision. I don’t know if it was the right one, and after watching her suffer for 18 fucking days, I really don’t know.

Those moments when I think she heard me. When she recognized me. That’s what I try to cling to. Not the shell she became at the end.

I also understand the viewpoint of people from my past now. The pain I get now. Not that that matters at all. To me, I guess it does.

Each morning, the questions come up… “How are you?” “Are you mad at me?” “Am I OK?”

I won’t get an answer to the first two. Ever.

Only I can answer the third one.

So, I’m trying to. By typing. By listening to music. By reading. By driving aimlessly and with purpose. By showing up. By giving a damn. By being supportive. By breaking down. By enjoying a burger, fries and a soda.

You only live once. It’s a cliché. Like so much is a cliché.

Like writing.

Like crying.

Like living.

My thought train has reached its station. Do I jump off the back or do I take the stairs?

Only I know.