thomsen.

I'm not sure what to say right now. I'm at a point in my life where I'm not sure what direction I want to go. It's more like I'm not sure what direction should go at all. As I sit in this cozy chair, I think of the times that I know I could of made a difference in someone life, but clearly, could I have made a difference in mine? It's a possibility that only one person can know. How can I sit here while watching television and letting minutes pass by without some acknowledgment that something in my life has been worth a life living on this planet? Whatever, at this point in my life, I just can't stand the imagination that I'm single and still alone. My desire to be with a woman is great, but my desire to financially stable myself is shot. I know that in my heart that I wish that life was simple and that I had a amazing job that would provide for myself as well as for my future family, but the pieces of the puzzle seems to be missing. I can't figure it out. It drives me insane that I can't figure out what the purpose of my life is. Someday, I want to be a genius. Someday, I want to be a lifesaver. Someday, I want to be a hero. Who am I? A genius? A lifesaver? A hero? Each one is a possibility, but only one will be a reality. Or will it not? Will I go in the name of history as something other what I vision in my dreams? The dreams that I have conflict me: I envision random images of experiences I felt in my life the last twenty-eight years, I envision other images of what my life might look like ten years from now, lastly, I envision where I am now to where I would be twenty years from now. I often wonder what it is like being a writer. I've never been a writer before. I never understood the pressure it takes to being a writer. 

My seventh grade teacher drove me insane because she required the classroom to write in a journal in class for English. Guess what? I hated that assignment. Why in the hell should I write in a book for someone else that I didn't not want to read what I wrote. I felt it was none of her business. So I wrote about simple things, rather than things that tore our hearts, such as a common day in my life. Boring. I always felt my English teacher was pathetic at times. She married and remarried the same guy five times. I'm fucking serious. She showed me these five rings on her right hand to prove to me how committed her man was to her. At times, I felt sorry for her. I thought she was even pathetic that she remarried the same guy five fucking times. I was thirteen at the time. If I said that in her face, fuck, I would of been expelled from school. Like any school boy who was a saint, best thing I ever did was keep my mouth shut. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't kept my mouth shut. But then again, what did I ever know? At times in middle school, to ever say something against the middle school teacher was against the norm. With my brilliant mind of mine, the best thing to do was to keep my mouth shut. Quite frankly, I find it surprising that I actually passed English. I hated writing in that journal. I thought that the purpose of writing in a journal was to write what you thought and keep it to yourself and not share it with anyone else. But I guess my English teacher had to know what I was thinking: damm her. What I thought was my own private thoughts and I made sure she didn't know what I was really thinking. But, twenty years later, I find myself eager to write. Seriously write. What I truely think of things that have been happening in my life. Such things require to recollect, recall, and reenvision what life might have been like now. Am I up to the task? I hope I am. I hope that my random thought do not offend those who are reading what I am writing right now. Am I really a writer? I like to think that I am. I'd like to think that what I write matters to those who read what I write. Can I promise that what I write will be as simple as writing the truth? Nothing matters to me more than knowing that I write what is true and what my heart believes is true. 

As I sit next to a JIF, it stares at me with total confiscation that I am guilty of eating in such pleasure. I cannnot resist such temptation. Why do I think that I'm a fool? When I sit in the middle of the night on my bed staring at the backlight of my woreout Dell laptop and ponder if my life does ever make sense. I swear upon it, it does not. The life that I live can only go on when I live within the moment. Yet, they are just that...just a moment. Or better said, moments. Does it sound like a confusing moment? When you read this, does it seem to be written by someone who is confused? My friends, truth be told: I cannot deny what is true. It confuses me when I am still single at the age of twenty-eight. It confuses me that the career I thought I was going to have, I am nowhere near so. It confuses me to believe in what I once believed I only somewhat believe in it. It confuses me to understand that the pieces of the puzzle of my life...yet, still needs to be put together, but the larger question is, do I put it back together myself, or do my friends and family help me put it together? Who do I trust? Who believes in me? Who can I love? So many questions lingers in my heart, yet, it's always the same, with the answers only comes with more questions. One thing for sure: I rather ask. The only thing that is left: can you provide me with the answers?