yapping and laughing and living

I am writing this very earnest piece. 

I want to connect to you.

Fuck that.

I need to connect with you.

I am writing this about a squirrel.

And a banana.

The hungry squirrel is always doing things for his family but this one time he finds a banana and he eats the banana including the skin and then gets sick and dies as he scurries back to his home in the woods.  

Or maybe its a home in an alcove.  I can't picture it because these people around me are yapping and laughing and living.

I have this insane urge to have someone read something I write and immediately get it, get me.  

Or maybe I just want someone to tell me it's all been done, that I'm nothing, that all I can ever aspire to is to get published in my friend's journal and it will close shop within days, months if I'm really lucky.

I am a good guy.  I hate the fourth wall.  My name is Lucas and I live on the fourth floor.  I don't live upstairs from you.  All the other tenants have real jobs and make good money and probably think "Fictionaut" and "Argonaut" are related.   

I have published approximately 100 pieces (some flash and some a bit longer) in various print and electronic journals over the past eight years.  Some killed me to write.  Some I think about every day and damn if I don't feel good about having written them.  Yet nothing even remotely like that is in me anymore.  The idea of writing an actual story feels laughably impossible.

I can't take it bird by bird because I have neither.

I want to write something though at some point in life.  I am only 38.  Perhaps I will do this before I die, probably in my 50's, if I'm lucky in my sleep.