Post-Pandemic Mini Nervous Breakdown

Smoking is cool. Perhaps the coolest thing I can think of. 

Even my thoughts are full of nicotine in this humid, post-pandemic Parisian night. My thoughts don’t match the coolness of my cigarettes though. A man is professing his love to a woman who couldn’t care less for each cigarette I roll. And so I go, along with smoke rings. 

Things to write about:

A story within a story. A movie within a movie. A dream within a dream. A man within a man. An idea within an idea. 

I’m so frustrated. Here I am, on a post-pandemic train to Italy. I should be elated. I should be thrilled. And of course, I am. At least I’m excited to see the love of my life, my dad. But why am I so frustrated? Cause I should be inspired. I should have a million ideas. Things to say. Things to write.

Nothing.

I have this ridiculous dream of writing a book, and that it would be sensational. Truth be told, I’ve been empty for a while now. I wonder if I’ve always been that way. I wonder if I’ve somehow always had these grand delusions. If all I told myself are lies. I’m a fraud and that’s a given. 

I think it’s funny that one of my favourite artists of all time is Woody Allen.

Why is it so funny? Because he’s also a fraud.