-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
set on repeat
Being sober for even one day.
Just half of one day
is excruciating.
Not being on drugs.
Whatever that means.
Booze. Weed. Sugar. Caffeine.
Gives you lots of time.
Time to sit around and really see how dirty everything is. Time to listen to how quiet it gets when there is nothing to say. Or when you are just too tired to say it. So much time to do absolutely nothing. Too much time to kill and not enough time to just be.
Pain in the back. In the gut. In the head. In the heart of the heart. Pain. Pain. Pain.
Wondering and fearing that maybe my creativity is really gone. That I have no more good ideas or that I have lost the ability to put any few ideas I have into motion. That my "artist phase" may have lasted longer than most people's, but that just may mean that I am immature. Or slow to mature.
Maybe all the booze just wiped out so many brain cells and the creative neurons are having trouble firing. Give it time, I tell myself, and it will get back to the way it was.
But different.
Hopefully better.
The brain and the body-brain have a remarkable ability to heal itself. You just have to give it time. And give it what it needs. Not what it thinks it needs.
Maybe having to work at a job I hate for sub-standard pay with people that are hateful and generally horrible is just crushing my spirit. The more I work, the less I create and the more I end up drinking. The more I drink, the less I create. Can't quit my job, but I can quit drinking.
This life situation, or the situation that has somehow become my life, is beyond pathetic. It is exactly what I always used to try very very hard to avoid.
In the end, do we all just end up becoming what we fear most?
And do we fear it because deep down, we know, it is who we are.
Destined to be.
Or maybe just the mold that others
Parents, siblings, teachers, bosses, society
Have poured for us
And it takes more courage than most have to break out of that mold and be free.
It's easier to just let yourself be poured like nasty egg-batter into the mold of personality they all see in you at first glance.
First impressions. Isn't that what they say? First. Impressions.
So.
Slit your wrists with a plastic knife.
Give yourself an ice-pick lobotomy.
Eat cheese.
Sit and stare in 45 minute increments until years of your life have passed you by.
And the only good memories you have
Are those of fictional people and places
That feel more like real life
Than the life you have built up around yourself.
Wake up.
Stop dreaming.
Stop drinking.
Feel the pain. Really feel it.
Life is pain.
And you already knew that.
2:39 PM - Sunday, Jan. 06, 2013
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------