Five Thirty Sunday Morning

Have you ever been in bed trying to fall asleep but your mind won’t let you sleep; it won’t even let you be comfortable?  Does your mind connect you to memories randomly and for no apparent reason? Memories that inspire your heart to put a strangle hold on your guts; that cover your flesh with that warm pasty sensation of emotional discomfort.  Have you ever tried to push that memory away just so that another painful memory can fall into its place? Have you laid there in bed for hours trying to fall asleep but you don’t sleep because of the pain? All those heavy brick like memories continuously cascading down from somewhere high above you; landing on your body causing you’re whole body to wince the second you get anywhere near falling into slumber.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way, and not because I’m happy, but because I run and I hide. I distract myself with too much Television, too many movies and too many fucking hours of working.  All the distractions, all the mindlessness I force myself into, just to avoid a little pain. I’ve wasted at least a third of a year, intentionally wasting time, for no good reason; it’s easier than spending it wisely. All that time wasted, being one of the walking dead, getting wasted, being a “happy American”.  All that fucking time wasted chasing love, chasing spread legs and moist holes or manually depositing my seed into dirty socks.  I’ve become like, not all of you but most of you. I need this pain, this rage to set myself apart from you. It’s my motivation to do more, to be better and get smarter. I need to stop running and hiding, distracting and self-medicating; it’s the only way to hold onto the pain and ride it like a freight train into every brick wall I can find.

I don’t think that I’m better than anybody. I don’t have more talent. I don’t work harder. I don’t have it harder than anybody else. I just see a different life for myself. I don’t care about my yearly salary. I don’t care about finding a “real job”.  The money I make now is real enough. All I want to do is to somehow matter in this world.  I want to matter, not more than most people just differently. Despite how angry and sad this post sounds, the truth is I’ve had an epiphany. I know with all of my strangled heart that I will matter in exactly the way I need to.

I have always had this unquenchable thirst to express myself. I’m thirty years old now, the only way it’s going away, is if I go away. Fuck That! Anybody who knows me, even just a little bit, knows that I’ve always been my biggest critic. I put myself down before anyone else gets the chance. Something is changing in me; I just don’t give a fuck anymore. I don’t care if I’m not talented enough. I don’t care if I’m not smart enough. I don’t care that my spelling sucks and that I have to Google search how to properly use punctuation. I don’t care that even after looking it up I still do it wrong sometimes.  I’m not going away so either is my thirst to create. I will continue to create in an exhibitionist/voyeuristic fetish kind of way. I will continue. I-will-continue.

One comment

  1. Pingback: Rhymiaq

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