Progress

How do I start this? The start is so hard! Oh, Lord, it is so hard!

I want to write about writing, particularly why I don't write so much anymore. Today, I found myself retracing my steps over the past few years on my quest for knowledge. Upon completion of my degree, I felt as if able to breathe for the first time, so I used my newly-found free time reading about the world. 'Twas an eye-opening experience, to say the least, having belief after belief shattered with every turn of a page. I immersed myself in books and essays on the rotting state of the world, the crass behaviour of the government, and the secret power of the have-mores.

There came a time when reading wasn't enough; I had to put this knowledge into action, hence my foray into writing. It seemed simple enough initially: I signed onto the interweb and spat out a couple of paragraphs on how much I hate the government and the corporate elite, then repeated daily as I saw fit. Soon enough, one or two paragraphs became several, and I learned to connect more and more dots, so I wrote and wrote and wrote. (If you have time and feel so inclined, faithful reader, have a look at my earlier stuff and work your way to the present; Blogger conveniently chronicles my entries by month on the right-hand side of the page.) Over time, political banter became perfunctory, so I began relating worldly knowledge to the happenings in my own backyard.

Lately, though, I haven't felt much like sitting down and writing words on my computer, for I feel the time has come for me to start doing. I can hole myself up in my room with a television set and network connection, ingest every morsel of every media outlet, process the shit out of the content, output my interpretation of it all onto your screen, and hope I have, in some way, enlightened you. In the end, what have I done? In times of need, do I sit here and write, then pat myself on the back for a job well done, shut off the light, and retreat into slumber?

Mind you, I have no intention of shunning the practice of writing, for it has proved invaluable - Hell, I find myself feeling a sense of worth after translating my thoughts to something tangible, something with which I struggle mightily - but lately, I've found myself wanting much more to be out in the world, to get into the shit, to get my ass in gear and do something about this mess, so I write this to you, dear reader (if you're still reading), not to worry if you see less and less of me through this medium. As much as I enjoy writing - that is, the few times during which I'm not spewing sanctimonious crap - I'd rather be living, and helping others to do the same.

It's one thing to scribe the experience of walking alongside a ravine on a summer's day such as this one; it's another to actually experience it. Perhaps when I'm old and grey and my legs no longer work quite as well as they do now, I'll sit here and remark on my life's experiences on a more frequent basis. Today, during my daily reading, I paused and said to myself, "My favourite writers could not have been had they not lived." It made me wonder if pressuring myself to write pages and pages of fabulous nonsense is the proper approach, or if I should simply live and worry about documenting my journey some other time.

I had to pause for a few seconds to see how long I managed to stretch this piece. I hadn't planned on continuing as long as I have, probably because I felt stuck at the top of the page (which explains my cry to the heavens on the opening line).

Point being, I would love to transfer my experiences onto these pages to share with all of you, but I would much rather be experiencing, and there are many who need our help - all of us - even if it means spending time with a loved one, or smiling at the cashier and asking how her/his day has been, or picking up litter in a park. I could meander ad nauseam about how these instances connect, but I'll save that for another time.

For now, I'm not going to worry so much about writing.