August 14, 2012

• Hear the engine sputter

  I sit here idly staring at my screen attempting to muster up something creative and meaningful to write because my mind feels as if it is functioning like clockwork in both its formation of ideas and approach to issues. 

  ...

  Nothing.

  Though I consistently find myself believing that life is meaningless and nothing you do ultimately matters, I find myself in a constant battle between establishing a life of stability and tossing aside all responsibilities to recklessly pursue my pipedreams knowing full well that I am most likely destined to fail at the latter and fall into a deep depression fueled by regret and anger targeted towards my obviously stupid decision.

  See, it seems you can either choose between sanity or madness. One providing you with the repetitive, simple patterns that do not demand large amounts of labor from the heart and mind, but ultimately leaving the bitter taste of ennui and isolation due to the fact that nothing in such a life requires large amounts of labor from the heart and mind causing you to yearn for the knowledge of where the sun shines while the moon drifts in your sky. Ultimately, the longer you deny yourself this desire to fulfill your desires, the harder it becomes because with time you become more and more entrenched in your mundane existence, attaching yourself emotionally to your surrounding not necessarily because you hold any sort of actual fondness towards it, but more likely due to the fact that you've become so familiar with the lifestyle that you fear losing this pattern that you've come to know so well like the back of your hand. Perhaps the next pattern could be better. But what if it's worse? What if it's worse? Consequently, as you sink deeper into your trench, you become engulfed in your hole, losing sight of the things around you until you begin to forget that you're a living, breathing, human being, capable of climbing yourself out of your hole at any time and this hole that you're in is no more your hole than the sky is your sky because you've been sitting under it for so long. It's just dirt, but to you after all that time, it's something more because you've known it for so long. 

  Chaos and adventure on the other hand provide extreme stimulation. Too much stimulation. So much to the point that it destroys you, eats away at you and your mind leaving you feeling empty and dead when the excitement is gone, leaving you to realize that in the end, we are all alone in this world. The vision of the void is toxic because it is the antimatter of the magic that fuels you, so it causes you to jump from place to place with complete disregard for the past and responsibilities in search of another new experience, something different, something to help you engulf yourself in denial a little longer, something to help you outrun the truth a little faster because if you don't, you can feel the tendrils of emptiness slowly creeping up behind you, trying to wrap themselves around your ego slowly, gently, before squeezing down and crushing every bone in your mind leaving only the crumpled remains of yourself, as you really are, to marvel at what a [...] you actually are, no different from the rest of the animals living on the planet, yet believing that when you look in the mirror you see otherwise.

  Where down the line did I make a wrong turn without realizing it in order to find myself in this strange place, which is in no way similar to the destination I had in mind?

  If I write something philosophical, I sound pretentious.

  If I write something creative, I sound unimaginative.

  If I talk about my own life, I sound ordinary.

  What is there left to talk about? Nothing.

   

  I just want to make noise and have people listen, but not have it be judged as good or bad, compared to others, compared to myself.

  That's impossible, so instead I'll sing my song of nature, beauty, and nonsense in my shrill, hag-voice while I decide when exactly I should ditch my current career path to live out my life as a tragic, lifelong-aspiring opera singer. Fuck you.

  • 3:44 am
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