Chet Reads & Writes*

Uh… hello?

I don’t know if I’ll stick to this or not…

I enjoy writing. I have for years, but never actually make the time for it anymore.

I got to a point where I wouldn’t write unless I felt like I had something to say, but that is incredibly restrictive. It’s essentially led me to never write anything. It doesn’t help that I often feel like I am trying to do too much.

– Work
– Parenting
– Husbanding
– Video Games
– Reading
– Cross Stitching
– Cooking
– Better code development

These are all things I’m interested in, and some of the fall to the side in support of the others. I don’t actually know what to do about it, but here I am. I’m writing words on a website I essentially abandoned 3-ish years ago when I got a new job.

I’m still at that job. I also still love that job, which apparently it’s also harder for me to stop and write things when I don’t hate everything about that I’m doing with my life?

I believe I’ve made it clear that I don’t know what I’m doing with this post, but I think I’m going to start posting again. Once a week? Who knows. I’m not going to try to suss it out now.


What’s happening here…am I lost? I am.

With his voice reverberating though the vestibule of semi-consciousness, he was locked in stark darkness. Darkness so deep, there is no escape. The air feels thick in his mouth, pouring down his esophagus, filling his lungs like hot tar. Lungs overflowing, can’t breathe the air any longer, must expel it all.


It won’t leave. Can’t breathe. Lungs beginning to hurt. Pain only experienced once before, recovered from memory like it was still a fresh wound. Feet kicking, arms flailing, body stuck in the swimming pool ladder, eyes seeing the blue sky disappear as vision darkens. Then it happens. A hand on a flailing leg. A pull. Body is free. Head is above water, lungs are filling with air again. Realizing the sky is still there for viewing.

Darkness again.

Still lost. Lungs feel full again, cruel memories playing is all. More fear. Won’t live. Where’s the escape? Darkness begins to fade to nothing. Feeling heavy, losing thoughts…daybreak.

…just a nightmare, that’s all.

Theses and Thats

I’m writing blindly. Long lists of words that are cohesive and surround the same subject, supposedly. Each word, furthering the value of the list, is selected for its singular ability to turn apathy into action.

You do not know of your love for this list of words until you see a carefully planted intruder. This word’s goal is simple. Just by reading it you are supposed to become instantly more interested than you were before you saw this word. Does this word actually have power over you, not really, but it has grabbed your interest. You want to know what is beyond that word, what does it mean in this context, is there something there for you? The only way to know is to explore. I can promise you, though you have only committed to exploring the depths of this one word, you will soon be witness to another delicately designed diagram of words, with more reasons for you to split your time and interests.

Behind every word is another motive. Everyone’s motive is the same, do this for that. Rarely is the that all that rewarding that you would like to do that one thing again for the that, that you no longer wish to have received. Theses and thats are not what we want. When will they learn?


There was a horse named chestnut, and he lived in a barn. By barn I mean studio apartment, and by horse I mean man. Also, by Chestnut I mean Wilson. The man named Wilson, sometimes referred to by the narrator as Chestnut the Gelding, enjoys wearing a dilapidated horse costume in his spare time. Most people believe this to be a particularly odd thing to do in your spare time, therefore, Wilson doesn’t have very many friends.

Chestnut doesn’t care though. He’s a free horse. Who cares what a few podunk Iowans think? They wouldn’t understand a person with real personality even if that person put on a horse costume and kicked them in the throat. Believe me I’ve seen Chestnut experiment with this method before. That’s how I met him.

Used by Dreams

This is a paragraph from a much larger project I’m bouncing around in my head. I have been debating for a little while now on whether or not I wanted to share it or not. That decision has come out in your favor dear readers.

I had a dream last night. There isn’t anything compelling or worth sharing about this dream, but note that I did, in fact, have a dream. Each morning I wake to a fuzzy, steel blue scene that eventually develops into my room. At this point I often realize there are residual, fleeting, emotions and memories firing around my synapses, though all hope of recognizing one or some of them is long gone. There are people who dream, people who have dreams, people who remember their dreams, and people that are borrowed by dreams. I believe I fall into the latter most group.