I don’t have time for anything. Least of all time to learn things. This occurred to me one day down by the harbor, walking around being my own lonely self as I have been for the last seven years, or lives, shying away from other people whenever I got the chance – ruing every moment not spent in company. I love company, being around other people, sharing thoughts, playing ball. I love playing ball, all kinds. Basketball, football, you name it, man I long to be on a field with a bunch of guys on a summer’s afternoon, just boys being boys running around, throwing the leather around. There’s nothing better than company, yet I shy away from it, because it’s just too much. I mean, man, conversation is good, but it’s tiring. Not because I don’t like to talk to people, or listen to what they have to say – I just never know what to tell them. I’m one of those persons who can never tell a story. I don’t see the world in stories, you know? I just walk through it. Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking by the harbor that day and then it suddenly dawned on me: I don’t have time. Not to figure out what I want to tell people, not to write that great big novel I want to, and certainly not to learn how to write great big prose style novels like Joyce or Kerouac. I don’t have time to learn the language, always thinking I knew it by heart from birth. Yes, I always imagined I was some kind of wunderkind who could just waltz through life, and I do believe I was sorta in the making, but somewhere around 3rd grade I became a slouch and instead of math I was struck by the illogical lightning that is girls. Been constantly in love since I was 10 years old, I have. Not in the same girl, mind you, but always some girl or other. Never been good at hiding it; I see something that speaks to me, and I keep staring at it. I think I’ve looked more at girls’ faces than stars. So I’ve never found the time to just sit down and get to it. Always had to dream myself away, only ever told stories to myself: big doe-eyed love stories about all those girls. Never learnt the written language from telling myself those stories. Mostly dialogue, always been left wanting in real life when the dialogue didn’t flow as easily as in my own inner story. The mysteries of life. So I’ve settled down to writing poetry. Not a bad word about poetry. It’s an amazing form of literature, and some of the writers I admire most were great poets. But it’s the easy way out for me. Jot down 12 lines and you might just find yourself with a poem that can satisfy you until the next week. At the very least you have something that can be edited into a more full experience. Something worthy of other people’s time, not just your own. You need a good excuse to take other people’s time, I believe. We all live finite lives, add to that: on this planet that we all have to share. It can get tiresome, not just for us introverts. But I want to take more of your time, I want to take a novel’s worth of your time, only I don’t know how to write that novel, because I don’t take the time to learn how to write it. This, right now, is exactly the time I should be spending learning how to write a novel. I tried, to tell you the truth, to begin on a novel an hour ago. But what should it be about? I’m such a reckless person when it comes to things like that. I try to just throw myself into it, expecting with certainty that I will land on my legs, laughing as I have finished what I set myself out to do. The only laughter I inspire is from jokes made to relieve the pressure of telling people about myself. Everything seems to become some important secret when people ask me about anything in person. I’ve always been so much better in writing. Here I have the time to reflect on my words, to delete them, if they say something I didn’t mean to say – if they say too much or not enough. Here I have the benefit of a preview before the words are thrown out into society. I need control. Not that I have any big secrets. Those few secrets that I do have are secrets I have already shared with numerous people. Are they still secrets? More like slightly-hidden pieces. And yet I’m only interested in talking about myself. I think I can count on two hands the times I’ve asked people how they felt. It really doesn’t interest me, and I’m amazed when people want to know how I feel, what I’ve been up to, etc. Maybe it’s just the people I’ve grown up with. They always blurt out every little detail of their lives like it’s the next chapter in Great Expectations and so I just expect people to tell me if they have something to share. At the same time I don’t share anything in that manner. I have to be asked, and then, as I said, I still find it hard to share. Not because I don’t want to, but simply because it’s difficult for me, and because I don’t go around narrating the world. The world just happens to me. It’s not a story, though I often try to make it one, and I don’t try to go around and rationalize it. I don’t have some lingering desire to understand the world. Which seems really messed up considering I’m studying philosophy. But I won’t be studying that past the bachelor. It was good fun, but now it’s all serious and stuff, and I’m not into serious philosophy. Not if it isn’t French, which it isn’t at my university. That was the philosophy I thought I had signed up for. Sartre. There’s no Sartre here. Existentialism is a distant shout in a dark forest. And I have no flashlight, so how could I possibly make my way over there? I want to study the mind – and by mind I mean my own, of course. I’m intrigued by the ego. By what we make of the world, how we react towards it. How I react. I’m not interested in finding out what the world is really all about. What good would that do me, if I still wouldn’t react accordingly? Plus I don’t have time to figure that out. Figuring out what the world really is, is a much more comprehensive study than just finding out what my own reaction is towards the world. No, what I want to study is the relationship between people. I want to understand the way we use words as a means of communication. I want to learn how to tell stories. I want to be able to inspire people, or at the very least how to manipulate them. Yeah, that sounds bad. But just in a how-does-the-media-work kinda way. And I want to learn how to dedicate myself to all the things I want to learn. How to find the time to do it. I spend so much time on nothing it’s frustrating. I’ve started spending a crazy amount of time listening to music, just to think of myself as doing something. I believe in educating myself by listening to music. I’ve yet to come up with a really convincing way of saying it, but something along the lines of I have to know the music history, and listening to the albums is better education than reading about them – plus music makes you happy, at least when it’s good music, and who wouldn’t want to be happy? Something like that. I really should have divided this post into smaller pieces. Oh well. I guess I’ll find the time to do that someday.