If you're explaining then you're failing

Hello, Imaginary Audience. Before anything happens, let me tell you what's happening.

For the last six months, I've been writing these vignettes. They're all interconnected, although at present there is no concrete narrative sense to be made of it. They tell the story of a boy and a girl who meet, fall in love, and then slowly destroy each other and themselves. You can't tell a story like that in a linear fashion and be fair or really get at the truth of anything--there's just too much. So all of this happened in the context of their life, and none of it did, and that's that.

What you're reading is one person's struggle to make sense of his life through constructing fiction. These started in earnest when two things happened: first, I bought a typewriter, and I realized that there was so much power in filling up the real space of a sheet of paper. Word processors change things because they're infinite. This blog post has the potential to go on forever. But if I can capture a moment on a single page, and really invest myself in it, and at the end say that it was worth writing, well...

The other thing that happened is my life started falling apart. I felt numb at home, I felt cheated by the world around me, I felt like a misfit. I thought a lot about suicide. My marriage suffered for it, and now it is over. The details are my own, but in the last few months I have basically lost everything I ever thought gave me worth. I needed some way to explain all of these things, and these vignettes were all I had.

In the end I was still alive, and that felt good, which I can't honestly say I've felt that way in at least a decade. Today I am twenty-eight years old. Today is a day to begin sharing.