Chapters

It is 1:49 a.m. and very dark in my room. A minute ago I was thinking of sleep but now, here I am, sitting on the edge of my bed typing, typing, typing — And I’m not sure what I’m typing yet. I’m suddenly intensely aware of how quiet it is.

I’ve found myself facing writer’s block recently, only I don’t think it was writer’s block in a traditional sense. I had an idea — a fairly interesting one — that I just couldn’t get past. In my head there’s an old man who learns he’s going to die within a year and so he sets out to write a story. The twist — because there’s always a twist — is that he does it at the rate of one-word-a-day. Like a word-a-day calendar, just a word at a time, until his death.

It’s appealing. It’s creative. I have these grand ideas of rapid-fire imagery and fragmented sentences — as he gets closer to the end, he starts cheating. Combining multiple words into one. Trying to get everything out on time. The last section would be a babbling verse, a collection of unrelated words leading up to ‘chocolate champagne expunge me.’ And then he dies, and nobody can figure out what his last words mean.

I write such cheery stories, I know.

In any case, despite its relatively creative concept, it’s also a fucking stupid idea for a story. There’s very little sane rationale for a man to decide to write one word a day until he dies. Why not write more? Either this man is about as dumb as a bag full of lumber or he’s batshit insane, and in either case, he’s not going to be all that appealing as a protagonist. In addition to that, if this guy lives for another year, that’s only 365 words. Now I don’t know this from experience, but I’m reasonably certain I can’t tell a complete and worthwhile story in 365 words. Even if I removed all the profanity.

So what’s the point, then? What’s the point in holding on to this idea, even knowing as I do that it could never work and it’s best left behind? Why do we hold onto things that have so obviously outlived their purpose, or even beyond that — had no clear purpose to begin with?

I think I live my life in chapters.

Beyond that, I think everyone does. A lifetime is very much like a novel. And some are better than others. Some are epic stories with romance and adventures, and others are situation comedies that taper off as they get old and eventually — long after everyone has stopped caring — get cancelled. But all lives that go on long enough will be divided into chapters.

I think my life is defined by relationships.

Despite every anti-social bone in my body (And there are a lot of them; I’m quite boney), I think it’s absolutely true that people are invariably shaped by the company they keep, and the friends they grow close to. Obviously romantic relationships are of immense importance, but it’s really the combination of ALL relationships that provides the basis for the type of person you are at any given time.

I think every relationship in your life will inevitably end.

And these are the real chapters. We drift, from person to person, from place to place, from friend to friend. It will never be consistent, through the course of your life. The very best relationships — the ones that last until the end — will still inevitably undergo some sort of change. Chapters. Beginnings, endings — shifts as the main story continues.

Some chapters are impossible to let go of.

These are the romantic chapters. These are the ones that tear at your heart and drive you crazy when you try to sleep. These are the ones that make you intensely aware of how quiet it is in your room and gnaw at your brain. These are the relationships — and absolutely they are the best kind of relationships one can have, except maybe for the end — that form the memorable chapters of our lives. And a part of you never wants them to end, even when they start to drag. But, unless you’re lucky enough to have found another main character in your own personal life story, the chapters have to end. Right?

The man in my head is writing one word a day until he dies. It’s all at once a heartbreaking, stupid and immensely unwritable story. But he sits amongst the trees and writes anyway. And god dammit, I can’t just let him go because, well, what if it’s brilliant. What if it’s the last idea I’ll ever have? What if it means something more than I realize?

But then again, maybe it’s just a small chapter, that ends when I get out of bed late on a Wednesday night, intensely aware of how quiet my room is, and write this. Maybe he’ll die now, awash in rose petals and the rising tide, a broken saint enchanted by nothing but silly romantic ideas and a vocabulary of words that came out, one a day, until they stopped.

Chocolate Champange Expunge Me.

And nobody knows what it means. Not even me.