Some Garbage; Thoughts on My Garbage

In the ever dark corner of his room, Sam sits brooding in the dim light of his computer screen. He has been here perhaps all night, just thinking, just waiting for the right moment. In odd moments, his eyes turn away to remind him of his predicament, but mostly they are glazed and pointed at his monitor. He hears the sounds of silence coming from the street outside; this is an unusually quiet night in the city.

The numbers in the bottom right of the screen read "6:53 AM". What a strange time of day, Sam muses. A strange time of day that comes once every day. He has been hard at work all night trying to not write a story or poem or existential piece, with much success. What is a livelihood, Sam muses. I'm writing to save my life. Sam has a job, somewhere, doing something that is not writing, but right now he has hit the nail on the head, right on the money, has got it spot on. I dislike clichés, Sam muses.

Writing is catharsis, he slowly types. Sam's ears tell him that a car is moving outside down in the street, that his neighbor is waking up, that his heart is still beating. Catharsis of what emotion? Tonight I was frustrated and joyful. Now I am melancholy and apathetic. Sam is who he is. Tonight, he was full of what somebody wanted him to be full of, and that somebody was not Sam. I need to get ready for work soon. But he cannot leave, cannot stand up, cannot rest without first saving his sanity.

Even though writing is putting out some jumble of words out from me, what really happens is that I end up with a bunch of stuff inside of me. Sam's roommate flushes the toilet. Sam wonders where all that sewage goes, if there is fairness in some one location having all of that shit while none of it stays here. No, surely this place is full of shit, too. He knows that tomorrow he will be dead tired, but after work he will be happy and enthusiastic again. So long as I put out this jumble of words here. So long as I end up filled with a bunch of stuff.

The table on which sits the monitor is covered in empty cans, remains of many nights of difficult life saving. Whose life was saved, Sam thinks. Yours? Not mine, surely, for I never had possession of it, anyway. The sun should be up soon, and my life has a stranglehold on me. I must rest.

Sam rises from his chair and turns toward his bed. The screen has already gone dim.

--

I need to stop trying to write late at night. I've written shorts like the above on several occasions and every time I hate myself afterwards for writing garbage, so I delete it. I want to muster up the desire to write intelligibly during the day while my brain is still functioning, but during the day I am frustrated and joyful, not melancholy and apathetic. I want to write bits and pieces not to save my life but to make something enjoyable and perhaps even beautiful. I wonder why I am unable recently to write something that I am satisfied with. Perhaps my soul needs to be in a state of turmoil. There is no better muse than bitter sorrow. Surely there have been more "great" works inspired by pain and suffering than by joy and peace. A movie is often deemed "deep" and "moving" if its characters struggle with the many difficulties of human existence. Meaning is found in sadness, and triviality is found in happiness. Is this perhaps a bit foolish? Who decided this, anyhow? I would like to go back in time and find the first person who said "That's really deep" and ask him "What the hell are you talking about?" Actually, if I could go back in time, I probably wouldn't. Too much trouble for me, especially when I'm busy saving my life every night like this.