Realism is Not an Antidote

It’s Sunday night. I’ve been off since Thursday, and I’ve accomplished a great deal of nonsense-work related to marketing my non-selling books of stories, autobiographical essays, ruminations on meditation.

Oh, yeah. And that one novel I managed to start and finish such a long time ago that I barely remember writing the goddamn thing.

But my Life Coach says it’s not a waste of time. Yeah, I have a life coach. She’s a good girl, dedicated to doing good and making others do good for themselves. As part of my self-improvement I’ll try to write at least one entry per day on this blog.

Don’t expect much. The whole world is worn out, and I count myself among the weary. In fifty years, the fact that I – or anyone else – ever kept a blog or posted photos on the Internet or wrote novels or painted or sculpted or coached people to be their best selves won’t even matter. There will be nothing left of the world we inhabit right now in fifty years. In a hundred years, there probably won’t be anything with a face that remains alive to roam the earth.

Hey, man, I’m just being realistic.

Come back tomorrow! We’ll talk some more!