Write Your Life And Make Money
(Nadir Tolstoy)
My work hasn?t been published and if this was six years ago, when I was the young, charismatic boy appreciating my thoughts, I would?ve raced my hand under that falling rim and cup the liquid that was so imminent in tainting my art. But now, I stand back and admire my indifference in ceasing and make up lines I can relate to my life as I watch the wine run over the pages I?ve written.
Six years ago I was twenty-one. Not even spiteful enough to write about war not flowery enough to write about peace or love, not even ugly enough to write about beauty. I just wanted to write about everything with my simple knowledge. Young and idealistic: like sand painting in a windstorm. Her breast were supple, enticing, engorging me to the ends of bursting?the life of men ends when their hearts find peaceful sanctuary in hill tops of their utopia?war has no meaning for animals but just for the ones that find humor in a fart. I wrote for joy. I wrote for the morning. I wrote for myself. Then I found myself alone, older and as an adult. The world introduced itself and writing took a nap.
But then I took a part-time job. I was still going to school by then and my parents were paying for it so what the hell. Let?s write some more. Write and write I did until I graduated or tried to. University nowadays require money in exchange for a diploma. In a short time our family business took a dip, a very deep dip that the family business was in jeopardy and all payments pending. So now the indicator of knowledge had to take a nap...my diploma was on hold until I manage to pay for the last semester. Does that mean my life is on hold? hell no. Not yet. I'm writing abstracts now.
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