Sunday nights bring a certain kind of clarity.
It’s humid, and it’s only March. My best material is written in my head, and then when I sit down to type it out, all that elegant artistry has abandoned me and I’m left with jumbled thoughts and formulations that don’t make sense.
It’s about 9:03 P.M. Bedtime is 10 P.M., so this gives me roughly an hour to make something happen. The apathetic, lazy side of my personality that comes out all too often wants to crawl into my blanket and watch YouTube. Doing that won’t offer anything other than mindless entertainment, a break from all the mental anguish I subject my brain to on a daily basis.
I’m a plague on my own society, an infection inside my own brain. There is the thought that the more pain I feel, the better my art becomes. But that’s no way to live, seeking to sink to the bottom. There is good in this world.
This thought comes from a sick, demented place inside my brain that glamorizes the horrendous. That part of my brain doesn’t know what the hell it is talking about. It’s only scratched the surface of what it thinks suffering is.
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Maybe being a perpetually-starved artist is my road to happiness. Maybe that big break will never come. The only thing I find myself able to control on a daily basis is the consistency and persistency with which I approach writing. I have this undying belief that if I keep banging on opportunity’s door, eventually it will open.
I am trying to dream personal idealism into existence, holding off on the speaking it into existence part for morning walks to the grocery store that cause passing cars to look my direction in judgement. I’d like to tell them that I’m walking by choice, that my new car with a V8 is sitting at home in the driveway, but it’s not.
In that sense, I’m the walking epitome of what failure looks like. It’s crazy, but failure feels so good. A few years back I was listening to Bill Burr. He was ripping on men who never took a chance in their lives.
Here’s the quote, pulled from Reddit:
“Realize that sleeping on a futon when you’re 30 is not the worst thing. You know what’s worse, sleeping in a king size bed next to a wife you’re not really in love with but for some reason you married, and you got a couple kids, and you got a job you hate. You’ll be laying there fantasizing about sleeping on a futon. There’s no risk when you go after a dream. There’s a tremendous amount of risk to playing it safe.”
Following conventional wisdom has never been my MO. It’s why I’m able to sleep on the floor. But three years ago I was on an air mattress, one that developed a huge bulge and then popped. Back then money was even scarcer, more so than toilet paper is during this awful “pandemic” society is currently navigating in 2020.
At present, money is still elusive, but not the feeling of having meaning in my life. That’s what keeps me going every day, even when the expenses pile up, the matches on Bumble go down, and I look in the mirror and think my life would be much easier if I played nice and put on a suit to go work at some corporation with nice benefits.
I have purpose.
Let’s not get this confused: I’ve thought about hitting the internet in search of a 9-5 job. But the likely reality is I’d get to said corporation, and after a few years of savoring financial security, maybe even getting married, I’d begin to salivate over my current nights of frustration and hopelessness.
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Nostalgia is powerful, so much so that sometimes I begin to imagine alternate realities that would exist had I taken a different path. Going down these rabbit holes is foolhardy, but my brain once again begins to glamorize and convince myself that a reality I don’t occupy would be so much better than the present one.
What does my current reality look like? Right now, a lot of Yoo-hoo, $5 chicken wings from Save-a-Lot, and altercations with my ego. I seem to irritate most of the people in my life. I’m still trying to figure out why that is. Maybe it’s the way my face twitches when people talk to me, or perhaps people see in me what they don’t see in themselves.
Finding answers is never easy. But then again, it never was supposed to be.
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