I am not a Writer

     The one thing that I have learned from my class in Nature Writing is, I am not a “writer.”  I am not an artist.  I am not compelled to write.  There is no creative passion spewing forth from the center of my being.  There is no drive, no constant wish to do better, to learn by doing.  I mostly would just like to drink a few beers and go to sleep.  Writer’s write daily.  They use it as a tool.  They write to find solace.  I find no solace.  The worst part is how bipolar writing daily makes me feel.  One day I will be saying how much I hate everything and that the world is a terrible and gloomy place.  Then the next day I am writing about how there is hope, and I just need to find that one thing that I can do to make the world better.  It makes me realize just how incredibly selfish I am.  And how much of a jerk I am.  For instance a lot of my daily writing in my nature class centered around one person in my class.  I was super annoyed by this person.  I would write things like “GAH WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS GIRL?”  It turns out she has asperger’s.  And I am this shitty guy silently judging her for interrupting class with outbursts, and needing everything repeated 1000 times.  I am a shithead.  I am supposed to be this supportive creative part of this learning community, and I am too busy hating people for their faults that they can’t control.  Silently, hating.  I am not a writer.  I am a product of a generation that constantly thinks the world is about to end, so there is no reason to put any hard work into anything.  No reason for this struggle, so why bother.  I have noticed that when I write now, I say the same thing 4 or 5 times.  You could sum up everything I ever try to say with one sentence.  If I was writer I could do that, but I am not.  I am not a writer.  On my way into my first day of my Nature Writing class, I saw a bumble bee the size of my thumb with its stinger stuck in a locust or cicada or whatever they are called.  They writhed on the ground making buzzing noises.  They were both going to die.  The bumble bee thought it would be a good idea to sting, and now he was stuck.  The locust thought it would be a good idea to piss off the bumble bee, and now he was stuck.  How incredibly insignificant this all was, didn’t stop me from watching the two insects fight for their lives on the sidewalk.  I watched, because that is what I do.  I watch.  I am a watcher.  Watching the pointless events happen around me.  I am a watcher.  If the Bumble bee hadn’t stung the Locust, would they still be alive?  No, their death was inevitable.  But, maybe they could’ve had a few more days.  A few more days to pollenate flowers, a few more days of buzzing.  A few more days to float around and watch.  Watching is important.  I watch.  I open my eyes and watch.  I watch with eyes, selfish, biased, ignorant eyes.  But, I watch, and I will never stop watching.