My life looked too complicated for me to write. Where would I begin? How would I end it. The story I mean, not my life itself.

I suppose everybody sees their life this way. Maybe that's why few people write 

autobiographies

.

I knew I could never write one myself if I were to freeball it. Some structure was required. Borrow from the canon. Break it into three parts. Shove my life into them. Childhood. Adult. And then the rest.

What I wrote following that structure wasn't bad. Nothing that I'd want to publish. But there was something. Committed to an electronic document. One day after my death, if somebody cared enough about me to look through my documents they would find it. If that person was another fellow 

writer

they might find it amusing. A more entertaining version of a tombstone.

Words that were meant to convey that it was okay that 'this' person was dead. Because this person lived a decent life. A meaningful 

life

.

Whenever I read another person's 

obituary

, I never thought the words did justice. If I did know the person, then I would think that the obituary didn't capture their life's value at all. Had I not known the person, then I'd read it and think the person's life was meaningless.

My life would seem equally meaningless to anyone who might come across any obituary I might elicit. 

I had hoped that my autobiography's length alone would allow my life to seem meaningful to a stranger if they were to read it. I didn't care whether someone would read it or not. The mere idea that if someone were to read it that they would find another human on the other side was enough. But upon reading it myself I concluded that length alone didn't provide a sense of meaning. I was not a human. Biologically I was. But I wasn't someone another would call a real person.

I was born. I had no friends. I never fell in love. And I never performed any duties that I had a sense of commitment to.

I passed each day with only one aim. To pass 

time

itself.

Someone could say that I sold my soul to the devil. But I never made such a deal. I entered into this world without a soul. Somehow passed decades without having one. And I am sure to die without having a 

soul

.

If I were to write my autobiography again, then I would begin the first chapter with when I arrived at the motel out in the middle of nowhere. I had taken my car at the time. A Green 

Range Rover

out into the country. The middle of nowhere. Stopped at a random motel. There was a strange fellow there. He looked normal in appearance. But he seemed not to belong at the motel.

It shocked me at first sight because he reminded me of myself. Someone who didn't belong. Why were the two of us here I wondered. I knew my reasons but I didn't know his. Now that I think about it, the explanation could be as simple as he was doing what I was. Running away. At the time though I couldn't believe anybody else would be doing the same as I.

Who would run away from their life? I was the only one so vapid to do such a thing. Because I had no life. But everybody else seemed to have places to be. People to be with. Why was that one man at that motel. Standing there alone. With no place to be. No duties. No responsibilities. Only a desire to 'get away'.