Today I write for you, blog! A journal entry of no fictional nature...
Ever have those days when you think,
"what the heck do I even have going for me?"
Well, 4am confession time, I can't get away from that
line. Glances in the mirror remind us [or i guess i'll speak for myself] that I
am the embodiment of that thought. That string of words creates a meaning that
hangs like some aged wooden sign at the back of my skull.
It's always there, and when I shake my head around to try to
get the creative juices flowing, it swings through that hollow cranial cavity
and hits me right in the temples.
Basically I'm burnt out. I hate to sound like a
hypochondriac -- but I have anxiety issues; something I never thought I'd have
to deal with. But it sucks me dry, it absorbs all my emotional energy. Instead
of throwing my mental energy into composition, it gets eaten by this parasite--
this filthy anxiousness that never ceases quivering. Time is its parent.
Apart from that, I'm watching my nature change. This
shouldn't be a bad thing, this should be a healthy thing. Not in this case. The
way I'm seeing it, I'm falling backwards. The anxiety has taken away my
confidence, even in the way I interact with strangers/acquaintances or respond
to new situations. I'm more and more reminded of my 14 year old self, and that
makes me wretch.
I can't afford to fall back towards the type of person that
says nothing. One that has an opinion but doesn't care to fight for it. One
that tip-toes around the intimidation of peers. absolutely not . I want to
bring something to the other members of humanity.......
and say "hey, look what I have to offer.."
Problem is, assertiveness requires a shell filled with
confidence behind it; a person rich in assuredness and faith in their
ability.
(don't mock my visuals, i haven't written in a long time)
.
Right now, I feel that shell is empty. My body is empty. I
can put on my confident face or attitude for a time, but after a short while
I'm exhausted by the weight of trying to carry a dense personality with a
shivering shell that asks,
"what the heck do I even have going for me?"
I've let it all go. I've dropped all that I was originally
offered. I'm scared to touch the piano for fear I'll have retained nothing. I'm
afraid to start a painting, for fear a) i won't finish b) my piece will be boring
- it will be the same offer I always bring to the table. immature. meaningless.
I pick up my pen to write and I'm appalled at what comes
out. It's dry. It's lifeless. It's boring. It's immature. It is foolish.
What have I to offer? What the hell do i even have going for
me?
Motivation? Skill? Intellect? Pft. Things I used to hold
dear. Things I thought I could associate myself with.
Nah, it's a hoax. We train ourselves to live up to the hoax;
the invisible image that paints us as what we want to be. We then paint
ourselves, but we are not the embodiment. So fuck you.
At least not those of us with nothing more solid to stand on
than an empty shell.
Empty of motivation, empty of energy. Empty of skill, empty
of intellectual ability. I'm not an artist, I'm not a quick thinker. I'm just
someone. Someone who's run dry of paint with which to create the image of what
I want to do. ya, to be.
what do i have going for me? i sure as hell don't know. What
do I have to offer? i sure as fuck don't know.
I'd like to end this on a positive note. To run off in a
trail of dust, wherein sits a whimsical phrase discussing my turn around - my
pursuit of motivation.
But I can't.
Not yet.
Ya, not yet. There's a strand of hope. Stringy little
strands. ... lol.
I will admit that I take for granted a lot of things in my
life. I love my God and my faith, And I
love my other half. still a keeper.
Look at a situation, and find something positive about it.
Search, and change your perspective. Find that hidden, glowing aspect. cling to
it.
You don't need an entire string of pearls to see the value
in just one - washed with salt water ...
And if that's what it takes to keep your head above water,
then its purpose is endless.
