In a nameless alley way cafe, I kill time on my Day Off. Not that my work schedule is strenuous, or lucrative. It used to be both though, so Days Off are something to be regarded as special, worthy of capitalization. The weather is warm but dreary, its not worth the hour’s walk to the beach on a day like today.
I’m not sure what I’m doing in Dunedin, Otago, New Zealand. Though I vainly like to think that someday someone will look back on this as the time where I found my voice, that this stumbling around the South Pacific opened my eyes and focused my drive. I write every day. Massive amounts of 500 word stories and essays and rants. And then I lose interest. Like just about everything in life.
Today is no exception. I wonder about people, about my friends. About girlfriends and lovers past. The ones with focus and drive. How is it that they knew what they wanted to do? Or are they just really good at doing what they have to do to survive? Are we all just good at settling? I wonder about back home, wherever that may be. And I wonder why I feel the constant need to move, but then feel lonely being a stranger in a new city on a Friday night.
I love my independence. And I long for a travel companion.
I haven’t had any alcohol in a few days, and I don’t feel any emotion about it, either way. I drink when I’m bored, but only if it’s convenient. Dunedin is much cooler than Christchurch, but the liquor store is much further away.
I told a girl I’d write her a book for Valentine’s Day. That’s almost exactly a month away. 75,000 words over 30 days, only 2500 words a day. That seems miniscule, that seems enormous. The entire thing seems absurd.
I should probably get started. I think I’ll order a beer.