I’m having a hard time gathering my thoughts onto a single page. An avalanche of dialogue rushes from my fingertips with no clear origin. Once stated that my stories started off as a voice in my head, a character willing me to tell his story. Now all the voices have joined in raising their volumes, talking over each other into a cacophonous symphony orchestrated by first-time players of instruments in some back alley dive where drunkards and the sophisticated share shark stories. I am their vessel, unable to take orders because the tales of rotten childhoods and abortions no longer land the way they once did ten years ago when that world seemed more familiar than my own. Each passing day, the voices grow louder while my own softer. There’s no shortage of stories. A writer once said that he didn’t have to come up with the words; they were always there. He simply just plucked them from the air and arranged them in his notebook. While mine only have sketches of forgotten dialogue. Ruined ideas. Quotes from sources I failed to jot down, wishing they were of my own invention instead. There are stories there. Somewhere along the margins. Penned in fading ink. Hiding in plain sight. Among the cliches.

Just waiting for me to find them.

Texts to Sam

What if I’m a bad kisser now, Sam? Or that I’ve forgotten how to hold someone’s hand and mean it? What if something as simple as date night becomes a complex labyrinth of small talks and questions about the weather? What happens then, Sam?

Sam, can you tell me if I’m a good person or do I just do good? Can you decipher this text conversation, Sam? Are we talking or are we talking? Sam, I think I like this girl but I’m not sure. Am I flirting? Is she flirting? Have I found someone just like me?

How do you balance the dorkiness & the beauty? Sam, if I met a girl who’s half the person you are I’d still be a lucky guy.

I apologize for the TMI, Sam, but you’re my best friend and I think this comes with the best friend package—I’m a bit on the frustrated side. Because I’ve been the most typical minded guy today. I had to fight my thoughts for control of my brain.

I was walking. I missed you. And kids almost ran me over with their bikes. I’ve never had a kitten as needy as a dog. Or as whiny. They’re like little low self esteem furry people. I already have me for that. Except I’m not furry. I have like 12 chest hairs total. Ok. Like 20.

Sam, you’re awesome. I don’t know if I tell you that enough. And I love you.