I feel compelled to write something right now.
Right ways to write about the right ways writing wrings truth from the neck of falsities and verbosity.
I feel compelled to write something because so much reading can only compel you eventually, as an aspiring writer, to begin doing just that.
Articles about responsibility, short little anecdotes about beans, self-help typed out and sent around the world in a blink of an eye.
No one has read most of the words I've written
and that is okay.
Hungering for sustenance and finding it in all the wrong places leaves you even emptier than when you started. I have found confusion to be the antidote to decision making and thus align myself with that emotion constantly. Too confused to chose confusion, I leave it to its' best friend, apathy, and she paints a pretty boring picture.
What am I doing with my life?
I have written so much that will go unread
and that is okay.
That is perfectly acceptable because I wrote it all for myself--
"OR DID I", says the paranoid little voice inside my head that is fearful of attention seeking and so incredibly desperate to be acknowledged.
Listen to music just to get out of your head.
Watch stupid T.V. shows and rationalize that there are a lot of things you could be doing that are much more valid but not necessarily as numbing as just staring at a screen while playing solitaire while on Facebook and several other social media platforms/ self-help blogs to make yourself feel better about feeling okay about yourself every once in a while.
I look at people and feel jealousy of them because I sensationalize the lives they lead based entirely on aesthetic criterion I have arbitrarily assigned them full credit for purely for the sake of making myself feel like absolute shit instead of focusing on becoming a better me.
And then I remember they are livingbreathingcryinghappygoluckysadnessfilledangrymotherfuckerangstyselfdoubtfilled
human beings
and I wonder at how I could be so fucking self-serving in my self-hatred.
NO one likes someone who doesn't care about themselves enough to stop caring so much about everyone else-- everyone just doesn't know it yet because we all care about everyone so much and care too much and then all just sit back concerned and hypothetically putting one fist to chin contemplating in a serene and perfect nature inspired hyper monchromatic background that is the emotional equivalent of a blade of grass in the wind metaphorically speaking.
RIGHT?
Or am I hyperbolizing, over-generalizing, -simplifying?
Why do you care about me?
Why do I care about myself?
Look at how far this fucking planet has gotten itself sucked into its own sink hole. How fabulously brilliant and wonderful and gorgeously we have evolved. How disgustingly self-aware we all are of our privilege and then doing nothing to solve it.
Poor me, poor them, poor us.
Ignorance is BLISS motherfuckers.
But I am not ignorant, I simply consciously anchor my consciousness in different places from you... and you... and you... and the children in Africa and the drug cartels and the polticians and the fucking filibusters and the great lakes and South American forests and European brothels and Japanese tea houses and Buddhist zen gardens.
Because we each can only handle knowing so much.
And so I chose to sit here in my room and write about knowing very little at all as my mind spirals around in concentric circles upon itself a lá the butterfly effect never quite repeating itself and coming so damn close.
I don't need drugs. Sobriety gets me pretty fucked up as it is.
I just want to go to sleep but I can't.
I sit here and keep typing maniacally wishing I could eat some ice cream or solve a rubix cube or become a Russian hit man or be a tiny teacup pig in a teacup with little drawings of pigs on it, nesting doll style- teacuppig-ception.
But I sit here, knowing it is highly likely no one will read this.
And I don't mind,
maybe I do.
I'll get back to you when apathy stops being such an attention seeking neutralist asshole about the whole damn thing.
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