Heavy Boots

Today I managed to find a first edition of Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. Other finds were Everything is Illuminated, also by Foer, and a wonderful hardcover book of Through the Looking Glass.


I wish there was something worthwhile I could write, so that I could have an excuse for having heavy boots, not wanting to talk about music, or write at all.


All I can think of is the realization that for the majority of my life I imagined myself a writer; perhaps not as a career, but as a part of me, that I could write was something I always believed in. But I am surrounded by books and music and other people, all of which are better than me. The only reason being, I don't bother to open myself up. And why would I? Opening myself up would be like cutting open a bag full of garbage, the stink and rot pouring out. I can't even figure out if I'm an optimistic or a pessimistic, if I'm a cynic or a realist or an idealist.


It'd be nice to be like Oskar Schell, if only I could travel around the city talking to people, play a tambourine when I'm scared, describe myself as having heavy boots, and invent such beautiful things all the time. It worries me that I aspire to be a 9 year old.