Doubt:Never (Chapter Four)

I have spells of creative droughts. As of recently they have been depressive states. I doubt my own ability to be great.

"Oh come on you've achieved so much. You're the most creative person I know." She says sincerely...I think.
How many creative people do you know? I ask - but only in my head. What I really say is, "thanks."
"You're kind of like an inspiration."
"Thanks again. It’s just I wanna be like you; travel the world, affect a change. See new things. You know, something other than writing and managing things."
"Things?"
"My companies."
"Oh yeah." she smiles and continues, "Well you don't really do much managing."
"I do."
"Okayyyyyyyy, of course you do." her sarcastic reply is followed by her smile.
"Anyway, back to the crux of the episode."
"Episode?" She laughs. "Such drama. You're so fierce. There's a tranny in there isn't there? I always knew you flirted with sexual experimentation."
"Yes, I'm having an episode. No, I do not cross dress."
She laughs. I try not to. But give in. The 3pm coffee shop crowd, full of student-types, all look at us and observe our loud colloquoy.
"Can we get back the main issue here? I wanna travel. Like you. You're a demi-God - travelling from continent to continent like the passport of an immigrant." I say trying to restore order to the conversation.
"Do immigrants have passports?" she says laughing. I smile beyond my seriousness. She always has that ability.
"I assume they do. Anyway, you and you're travelling..."
"Okay, so yes, I have been around the world a bit..."
"A bit? That's an understatement. That's like being in a relationship, sleeping with another person only to announce the revelation with 'I cheated a bit'."
"You always take things to extremes."
We share a laugh.
"Seriously you've been all around the world. You're like swine flu."
She laughs and responds, "You’re the starter of swine flu. How was it sleeping with pig anyway?"
Such legendary banter. Banter like this always makes me feel creative.
"You know what it is, maybe you just need a break. A couple of days away. Paris, Vienna, somewhere."
"To find myself?" I ask cheekily.
"Huh?"
"Well you know, you're always 'finding yourself' in different countries."
"When have I ever said I'm 'finding myself’?"
"Loads of times.
"I've said those exact words to you? ‘I'm finding myself’" She says, serious prose filling her face.
"Somewhere along the line."
"I don't think so. I don't travel to find myself...as you put it."
"Oh no?"
"No."
"Why do you travel then?"
"It’s fun. It’s exciting. It’s a damn sight better than staying here and complaining 24/7, like you seem to do so splendidly. You're like a trapped animal. Your mind is the zoo. Your repetitive monotonous voice is the captured monkey." She retorts viciously.
I am again, socially inept. A silence.
She makes me feel small again.
More silence.
Suddenly I grab the floating urge to counter her insult.
With a subtle degree of arrogance I say, "I guess you're the paying customer?"  
Touche.
She gives me a look that could be best described as a ‘nuclear winter’. Milliseconds later she turns her head away.
More silence.
"Can we get the bill? I'm busy. I've gotta go." Her voice utters in disgust after cutting her eyes sharply in my direction.
Still upset, but arrogance growing, I continue my thinly veiled onslaught, "You're paying right? Being the ‘paying customer’ and all that?"
Touche part two.
Another look from her. Another cut of the eye and then a violent reach into her wallet - next slamming down money...too much. Finished off by..."I'm going home. Bye." - further finished by her leaving.
I smile to myself. I finally got to her. Suddenly I feel more confident. I feel cocky. My chest puffs out; my shoulders rise a few thousand inches. I am a creative god. Again.
     The waiter turns up. Still in the zone, I give him the money - all 'too much' of it.
"Keep the change."
Touche part three.
     I leave. Boisterous slow walk. I'm in no doubt about my talent now. Never doubt your talent. Never doubt anything positive.

The Legend of Routine (Chapter Three)

In my day-to-day world I don't do much. My life is filled with routine, so it becomes easy. My companies make me money. Neither interests me. I write to have passion in my life. My only book, to date, a cult classic, got a small group of followers. I think they want to kill me. One probably will. Much like how John Lennon was killed. Of this, I am not sure. 
    Occasionally I play with the concept of writing my next masterpiece. Technically speaking, I don't do much.

I've build a world for myself that relies on comfort. My own personal comfort. 5 hours sleep. Up at 9am. Hot chocolate everyday apart from weekends. 3 scoops of granulated chocolate in my 'hot chocolate mug'. Fill with three quarters of whole milk. 1 minute and 20 seconds in the microwave. Keep the spoon in the tin of granulated chocolate. Ready to stir the heated beverage. This is efficient. It means you can use the same spoon without putting it on the unclean work surface. Whilst the hot chocolate is heating in the microwave I can place just two croissants on a microwaveable plate ready to be warmed for just 30 seconds. Finished by the usage of two serviettes to cleanse the crusts that will be left on my fingertips from the heated croissants.

This, amongst, my other daily routines is almost biblical. My day has routines so that I remain content and in control.

I have no time for folks without routine. Their lives are a mess. They live life on the peripheral of mayhem. My 'friends' seem to be all like this. They call, I don't answer. I don't want to waste minutes or, worse, hours on the phone talking about them. And I sure as hell don't want to talk about me. My life is simple. Simple and boring. I like it that way. No stories to tell. They do have stories, in abundance, and I don't want to hear them. They're mainly in the creative field, these ‘friends’. They think personal chaos is creativity. To a degree, I guess they're right.

Back to her again. She is the forbearer of this - the dastardly evil genius of chaos. She has no logic or order. One week she's in Paris, the next in Cuba. She attempting to find herself. You know that's one thing I've never understood...why people feel the need to travel hundreds and thousands of miles to 'find themselves' - this defeats all logic. Not only is it not cost effective, it’s also very contrived. She doesn't have to worry about that. She is from a wealthy background. She can find herself over and over again in different continents. Like some schizophrenic circumnavigator. When space becomes a destination of personal travel, she’ll go and 'find herself' there as well.

She annoys me. She has no routine. Only intellect. When I meet her she is often sitting - very content - in her own space reading the Economist or some Dan Brown crap. She 'gets' it. Me, I don't like to read. I get bored. Just like I don't like to sleep. She loves sleep. 8-14 hours. When I meet her and she puts down her book of choice, I am always greeted by that same explosion of smile. Her smile illuminates my dark undertones - it makes me feel homely. Femme fatales don't exist anymore. Women are allowed to work nowadays. Meaning they don’t need to dress nicely and lure men into their web of intrigue for money and fame. If they did exist, she'd have a perfect day job and night job to supplement that. I hate her for that. She's my Ingrid Bergman.

Her brilliance confuses me. The heartache she gives me inspires me. It makes me want to write poetry and textual genius.
      She is also my muse. Breaking my routine with her lack of it. Emailing me at 11am to tell me to meet her for coffee at 3pm. That was never on my schedule for today. It is now. Her lack of routine confuses my routine but also becomes routine.

How I love routine. It makes me happy. Provides me with happiness.