|
| I look forward to being a musician more than anything, but it dawns on me time and time again that I have no reason to be waiting. I am a musician so long as I want to be one, and there's nothing keeping me from achieving my ultimate goal, save myself. But all these insecurities and doubts and painful realizations could never hope to compare to this overwhelming passion I have inside, this burning desire just to be, without restraint, moderation or forethought. I'm capable, and I don't want to get in my way, anymore. I decide what I deserve.
| | |
| I have so much to say about the music rotation on television, but I don't seem to have enough balls to do something about it. I should stop wasting my time and create things, for a change. All I want to do is create something, anything, yet it seems to be the thing I have the most trouble with. When I'm not avoiding it by any means necessary, I'm having a fucking breakdown over sewing some paper together. I just want to share myself with the world. It's funny how much of me considers that a service to mankind. I guess there's a thin line between funny and pathetic.
Who am I kidding? This self-censorship's such a joke. Yeah, I think I'm unique and gifted in a lot of ways. Fuck you, fuck cliché, fuck being everyone else. Modesty is a ridiculous lip service that I owe no one. No one owes the world their embarrassment, especially not for loving themselves. We're all a bunch of sniveling, lonely cowards, who can't stand to see anyone progress beyond ourselves. I'm tired of disregarding my own advice for fear of looking whatever it is I will. But who am I to speak for the collective? I'm a sniveling, lonely coward who can't stand to see anyone progress beyond himself.
My tea is bitter.
| | |
| Sometimes I've just gotta, regardless of how much I may want to stop at this very moment. I suppose this condones looking forward and relying on the existence of a future, which is contradictory of all my other tenets, but what am I to do? I'm stagnating in my overwhelming addiction to self-destruction. I consciously make choices I know will lead to pain and sickness and hardship. In theory, this should make me stronger and readily available to deal with future challenges of a similar nature, but every time they present themselves, I take a dive, roll over and assume the fetal position. I internally boast of my maturity, foresight and 'wisdom', having wrathful disdain for those lesser in understanding and focus, but who the fuck am I? To claim wisdom, even secretly, is such a laughable contradiction and if I was so mature, would I not find in me the capacity for anything even remotely resembling self-preservation? I'm a pompous ass that's so worried about his appearance, he rolls every decision based on the possibility of watching eyes. I am never alone with my thoughts, for what if someone were to overhear one? What a calamity it would be for someone to disapprove of me! A joke, surely, to think that there is one that does not already. And do not coddle me with comforting words or accusations of self pity, for I'm well beyond pity and comfortable amongst loathing. Big fucking deal, who doesn't loathe themselves these days? Here I go, already, comparing my words and thoughts against the infinite of others'. My entirety is individual, I know this, but I cannot feel it for some reason.
There is such discrepancy between my thoughts and my feelings, and I've no idea where to begin reassociating the two. I suppose I should actually listen to myself for once, neglecting the 'how' and just doing. I want out of this place so fiercely, but cannot bring myself to follow that direction, or any for that matter. And so I return to proclamations and lamentations of my stagnation amongst my own internal and moral decay. When will I end it? When will I choose to rid myself of these patterns of sabotage? I have to constantly, constantly, remind myself of my wishes and dreams and dedications. I cannot rely on the infinite for motivation, just as I cannot inspiration. I am everything I will ever be, and I am nothing. This sentiment is not so bleak as you may think, it is the only thing that seems to still give me the will to continue. A will that I must draw from within, damn it.
I may keep up with this, I may not. I should. It could help.
So could Xanga adding expletives to its dictionary.
| | |
| The power was out tonight. I got home from dinner with my mom and sister to find my house empty of life and light, save two cats and one candle. My dad, his prize sow in tow, up and left when the power went out all the way up Indian Mountain.
I love blackouts. The last time one this massive happened it was dusk and the neighborhood had an impromptu party. Fireworks went off, people blared battery-powered ghetto blasters and drank on their front porches. I plucked my guitar under that full moon and played until the the lights were reignited and my neighbors reluctantly retired from their open, wild jubilation. Everything was back to normal, how depressing. There was more light, sure, but everything had a lot less color. I was impressed at just how much the dark could help me see. We need something to happen. We're anxious and angst-filled. We need a cause, a focal point, to aim all of our dissatisfaction at, and by golly there's a lot of it.
I need a thunderstorm or at least a good night's sleep for a change.
| | |
|
