Next Week

He stared off at the painted landscape, a myriad of crimson hues, the last light of the day reflecting off the bottom-sides of clouds, their asses shining down on everyone, including him.

It took him away from the reality, a sort of reality escape. There always seems to be two running alongside each other, the reality of man and the reality of nature. So while man makes his own rules for fellow men, nature cares not for those laws.

So how was he able to keep his stride in between the two? Not as well as he put on. Financially, he was a disaster. Loans, defaults, credit checks, and collectors were all he had amassed. His day to day was fairly pathetic, just a tary of useless activities, each as trivial as the next.

He really didn’t care about either nature or man. Inside he knew it was stupid: the laws, all of it. It was a means to an unendable end, a rat race as some might call it; the same fate for all, no matter the placement.

What was there to obtain? More life? More time? Those sorts of searches ended a long time ago. The only place you could find them now was the methodical and boring confines of a lab or office.

Actually, an office doesn’t sound too bad, he thought. It would be free of distractions, at least until I put in the Super Street Fighter 2 arcade machine. Maybe a little distracting then, but not like this now, not like this small room with an old laptop, tapping away on the keys, trying to make words do stuff.

Instead he found his quasi-laziness to be keeping him in a state of purgatory, neither truly gone, nor fully there. He would do some things, for sure, and he would come up with an interesting idea every few months or so, but his incomplete dedication to it would be the reason he stayed small.

Nothing wrong with being small, he hurtfully choked down on the thought. I can just do this, and when I die, I’ll leave behind hundreds of little short stories for the world to enjoy.

You know who else has hundreds of short stories? People and companies far greater and more imaginative than he could ever lift himself up to be. His delusions of grandeur were finally catching up to him. At least it wasn’t too late. At least he hadn’t invested money, only time, of which he had more than enough of.

The world was changing and he was still waiting, always waiting for that golden opportunity to magically pop up, instead of creating his own. In a way, this was that opportunity, once again being looked for, instead of made.

They were read, his stories. Some of them even became a little more popular than he imagined they would. But they were only just that: simple little stories with no purpose and no proof of concept, just words that were equal parts ranting to colorful word usage.

He loved the other creators. He often tries to imitate them, their spirit, their energy. He would fail, but he loved them all the same. If only they knew how much he looked up to them and how much he truly wanted to write or draw or create like them, they would probably be a little nervous. He was just starstruck and envious, in a way. It was more gratitude for giving him a drive, giving him a goal.

But the one thing they had over him, and always will have, is a head start. He should have started sooner, much sooner. Instead now he trails behind, eager to catch up. And that is something he notices as he continues: Many creators fall and falter on continuous content creation.

He sees so many go slow or just stop. A few disappear, cleaning it all and acting like they were never there. But he knew they were there. And he knows he is still here.

That is why he just keep going until he stops. And when that happens, another creator will supercede and find success where he did not. And he knows and accepts this; This is the way it should be.

Will he make it? Will he do more, less, continue as he has been? You’ll have to find out next week.

Always find out next week.