I slept on a floor last night. College has encouraged me to sleep on floors quite often, floors and hard sofas. Initially this was a painful development-- particularly for the lower back-- but over time I've come to find it quite comfortable. Why didn't I sleep on the floor before? It's brilliant. I tried to at home, actually, I asked-- this being my first mistake-- mum if I could put my mattress on the floor. Dismantle the bed frame, put it in the closet, and sleep on the floor. Two stories up yet close to the rocks and rough beneath. "This is not a flop house, if you want to live like Jack Kerouac you will wait until you are out of this home." So I did.
I woke up to a stream of light as the closet door was nudged open. Then I proceeded to stumble around the apartment in half cognition, put on my shoes-- first the left, then the right, toes pointed, pull the backs up over the heels, laces out, laces up, laces tied-- and methodically made my way back to 712. Heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe. Right, left, right, left. A writer came to class today, a real live writer, a living writer. Published, accomplished, ordinary looking. Just a man, capable of weaving words together into a working narrative.
Why not be a writer? It's possible. All that need be done is commit to the notion. This is why I am here. I don't feel elated, or even all that relieved, just content. I know what I want, more or less. I don't know exactly how to get it. I am just figuring out how to be it. I'm quite certain I'll commiserate and yell at myself still. But I have a general direction. I'm committed.