I’ve been tryin to write poetry and failin. Someone tweeted many moons ago, about being a parent: join the ranks of the vague, disoriented and always tired. I feel like that whenever I try to put digital pen on digital paper. Everything feels like it is made of glass. I had lost a project that I’ve been working on slowly for three years maybe more. I was going so slow the person I was working for decided to do the project himself. I can understand. I was too slow. Of mind, of resolve. But it made me think, I have always felt the need to attach myself to success. Someone else’s. Thinking that basking in someone else’s success is success itself. I have very low self-esteem. I have been thinking since—since I lost that project—that I need to do things I actually want to do. That nobody else but me wants me to do. It’s a cliché, but it’s true. You don’t find yourself in other people. I don’t know if I’ve got the will, the resolve, the power to try to find myself again after all these years. I’ve got a kid and a house to fix (needs a new library and the front door is creaking). I just wanna go home and sleep. I read Afrizal Malna before I go to bed. I dream of his exploding kneecaps. Which makes me think, why do writers like affairs (d’amour)? I know that A once cracked on to R, asking her to be his girlfriend since it’s been a long time since he wrote a novel and he has to have a girlfriend before he can start a new novel. But I wanna understand, not castigate. I want to be me, not replicate. Fuck these womanizing writers, I just wanna go home and jerk off to Eric and Sookehhh.