Sleep. 2/9/2021

I started reading Haruki Murakami. My pal Seth bought me Kafka On The Shore for Christmas, and Norwegian Wood for my birthday yesterday. He's a good lad, still filled with unwasted youth and pessimism. I hope he can find his direction sooner rather than later so he won't become an old, depressed cog like me.

Alas, I turned 33. It's Jesus' year, the time to put up or shut up, now or never, sink or swim. Hm. I know I hindered myself all those years ago, putting unrealistic expectations on myself, but I'm confident that I never will if I don't start now and put on my big boy pants. How many more years must I waste? How many days will I flush down the drain of the porcelain toilet of my life? 

I discovered a new writer, Walter Mosley, a mulatto like myself. He started writing at 34 and has never stopped since. Over 40 books! Furthermore, he had already failed at that age (his words), which is really inspiring because I'm obviously in a similar situation. I've failed at everything. EVERYTHING.

I'll get there, I promise. I have too many stories in my head, constantly arguing about who gets to sit in the front seat, and it's becoming increasingly annoying.

I really need to get Seth a gift.