What does it mean to be 21 and hope to be a writer? I imagine that I write a lot but rarely do, and I don’t honestly know that it’s my favorite thing. Maybe I’m just young. These thoughts aren’t culturally ground breaking. But I must think I’m good at it. Maybe because I think I’m good, others will too. Maybe that’s a false corollary. It seems sort of masturbatory.

Taking my thoughts out of my head and putting them on paper force me to acknowledge tangibly what’s in my brain. It allows me a glimpse at myself with a finer degree of objectivity. Maybe it doesn’t; I am very far from objective about myself.

I’m very guarded too, and writing only allows others a subtextual peek inside. Maybe that’s what I want. Or maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. I’m far more comfortable consuming, judging, evaluating, cultivating interest and respect, than I am producing creatively, an act I maintain is my true passion and purpose in life.

Maybe I’m depressed. I’m probably depressed. I’m depressed that it gets dark at 5 pm. I’m depressed I have so much shit to either move or sell on Craigslist. I’m depressed that no one will know I’ve written this. Maybe I’m not though, because in writing this my goal is not to elicit pity or praise. Both seem sort of masturbatory.

I want to go home for a while, to a place far less…I’m not sure what. I was about to say stimulating but that’s not the case. I’m very stimulated in Memphis.

Maybe it’s just bursts. Maybe everything is just bursts. This thought was definitely a burst. Maybe it’s the amphetamines and nicotine and caffeine. Maybe it’s just writing.

Maybe there’s another fruit cup in the fridge.

There is. Awesome.