Monday, again. Feeling like I’m in a sequel to “Groundhogs Day.” I walk to the train and find myself being passed on the walk over by older people and a woman speaking Eastern European language through her air pods, while smoking a cigarette, pushing her child in a stroller and holding on to the leash of her scary looking dog.
She passes me seemingly effortlessly as does the older lady. I recognize the older lady as someone who went to my high school and I realize that we are the same age. It then, once again, hits me that I am not the young man I still envision myself to be.

It’s a beautiful day and the streets are filled with the aroma of a bakery or a coffee factory.
I think about the words I have written and I wonder if they have touched anyone in any way.
I have been told I’m a “shitty writer” a repetitive recording playing over and over again with mundane conversations. Been told a lot of negative things and some positives.
I don’t really care.
I write for myself.

The words that express themselves through my fingers are my own. How many people can claim the same in these times of plagiarism and false bravado?

I have so many books within me waiting to be written. As time passes it feels kinda impossible to find that setting. When I write a story I put myself in that story sort of like a method actor. Once I stop, I’m back in my own mind, my own time.
Yet with financial burdens, shortfalls and needs unrequited, how can one dream when there is money to be earned?

I used to say, “one day,” but those days are running out.
So I write daily posts to say what I feel as I glide into “60 years on.” I have a strong will to be living for a long time past 60. Who knows? Right?
Men make plans and God laughs, right?
So let those walkers walk past me, let my contemporaries walk effortlessly ahead of me, I am in no rush. I have a lot of work to do and anyway I’m not in a rush.