Until very recently, I wanted to write about my past all the time. There is some interesting stuff to document there, nothing comparable to surviving plane crashes or losing my family in a genocide, but there is some psychological tumult, poverty, recreational drug use, and just enough sex to make it interesting. It's a little peppery back there where I used to be.
Now, though, I am far less interested in most of it than I ever have been. This disinterest seems to have started sometime around the 9th of September when I quit smoking, but I doubt that's the sole reason. I suspect it has to do with a combination of that, the doldrums of a damp and grey fall, and probably a dash of some late-blooming maturity into which I suddenly seem to be stumbling.
Could I be gaining some perspective? Quick! Bring the smelling salts.
More and more I want to write about the future, because that's where all the truly interesting things appear to lie, but there's nothing to write about it yet, so I'm left with moments like this were I sit at my desk and contemplate my mismatched socks.
I had a go at Spike TV this morning, but my righteousness only carried me through to lunch. Could fiction be the answer? That way I could invent pasts, nows, and futures that don't bore me like my past and now my present sock contemplation happen to be doing.
For some reason, when I imagine the future, I envision everyone in crash helmets.