Doubt has infected me. There is no direct treatment, no known cure. Key elements are missing from my body and mind, a chemical unbalance. The disease has spread throughout my world, contaminating more and more of my everyday life. I have begun to doubt the very truth of myself- I feel like a lie. I have no problem with being a liar, but being a lie s a bit different. What do I really see?
The last year of my life as I know it has started. If all goes as planned this coming May I will be finished with school, walking away with my masters degree in fine art. What a glorious title, yet the rest of my life will remain unchanged; I will still be broke ( even more so then now), probably have the same job, and engage in the same tedious activities. However, I will have the athority to request anyone I communicate with to address me as master. Seven years of school, thousands of dollars, long sleepless nights….a document with proof of my prestige, my title…. I think it’s worth it. So in nine months all that know me be prepared, prepare to call me master.
Lately I have been trying to figure out what it is I exactly do. I say I’m a painter, yet I haven’t painted for months. I say I hang out at coffee houses, but I really only come and go; not really hanging out if you get your shit then take off when you’re done. I have nothing really. I go to work, eat, sleep, lounge around. I do nothing. I determined that I am really more of the type of person who needs to be found. I used to spent every last moment searching for the parties, seeing a million friends, and always having someone or something to do. Now I sit and wait for them to find me, and when they do I try to dissapear. I am no wingman. I am no center of anyones party. I am not the scene. It’s not that I am not full of flavor, I’m just devoid of life. Maybe it’s time to get back out in the world and remind myself of who I could be.
Really, it is no problem at all to hash out your plans in the middle of my store. In fact, why don’t you speak as loud as possible so that everyone around you knows how cool you are and all the “kick ass” restaurants you’ve been to. Take forty-five minutes if you need, hell take an hour if you want. Being in the way always comes second to being hip. There is nothing like working a friday night and being grumpy; and on that rant, I say goodnight.
Every once in a while I become overwhelmed with a strange little choke from the shadows, a cloud of expectation smothers me with its unanswered quests and adventures. Instantlly I am ready to escape the evil clutches of depression, my mind fills with excuses and strategy. No matter which way around it I go, I always end up with the same remedy- pick up and move away. Pack my shit, drive until I run out of mountain dew and gas and shack up; never to tell a soul when, where, and why. New begginings, new names, new stories. I can rewrite my total origin story. I can’t help it, this idea excites me down to the bone. I’ve never done this, or have I? Maybe the last time I hauled off I forgot to tell myself who I am and where I’ve been. Fuck, now I can’t even trust myself…
I’m not really sure if it safe to say that everyone dreams while they sleep. I would like to think that everyone does, but maybe some just can’t remember their dreams. It seems that I have never had a hard time recalling every detail of my dreams, which lately has been a burden. I have been having dream after dream where I have ended up crying, only to wake up and check my eyes to see if I was crying in my sleep( which most of the time I have been). In the dreams I am practically howling, hopefully in real life it’s a quit whimper, for my neighbors sake. Not that I am embarassed or anything, it just seems rather odd that this keeps happening. I’m guessing that these dreams have become my way of mourning, while in my time awake I simply wait for nothing. Any dream experts have anything to say?
The minute you walk in the room you find yourself drowning in passion and energy. Not ever have I seen someone with such a drive to escape themselves. Sometimes the passion gets you drunk, polluted,… lost in brilliance. So many times you may need reassurance, a hand to pinch you out of the dream. Who is the real mastermind? Could it be one, two, or maybe even an army? Whoever, or whatever is responsible, it deserves everyones attention.
All of the limits and controls I have added to my daily experiment seems to have destroyed what little clarity I have between truth and fiction. Usually I resrict my dreaming; no future fantasies or hopes in order not to disappoint. That restriction has been since lifted, and now I find myself losing absolute control over what is real. Normally this would send me right back to the boring-immediate present, but I’m having a little too much fun. It’s nice to be dissapointed sometimes.
If it didn’t hurt everyone would be doing it. There is something so powerful about the ache, the pain that must be gone through to get something shiny. Trinkets can make anyone jump and dance, if it’s the right type of shine. Somehow I have skipped past the shiny prize; now I yearn for the ache, the stabbing twinge right before the reward. It’s not the anticipation, just the tour. Days and nights of suffering, knowing that I survived and that I can take more is my trinket.
Size matters. So many of my memories of my childhood reveal anamorphic flaws in proportion. The small desk at which I write this post seemed to stretch on for miles, reaching every bit of the room. The shoes of my grandfather were barges, slow and powerful as they travel the mighty mississippi. Endless forests were just brushes of woods, planted to dampen the noise of the highway beyond the house. I felt like I was just s tiny gnome; observing and feeding off of crumbs, just surviving. I haven’t caught up to myself, I still am just surviving- not changing, not evolving. Can the bite of a gnat take down a warlord of a man? I am much bigger than I have ever been, now that I see the truth.