August 12, 2013

“The ‘Muse’ is not an artistic mystery, but a mathematical equation. The gift are those ideas you think of as you drift to sleep. The giver is that one you think of when you first awake.” - Roman Payne 

I’ve erased and typed this sentence a hundred times. 

I’m trying to get my words out on paper; these demons from my fingertips. I don’t know why writing helps the way it does, I’ve never been much of a writer. Always I was speeding through school essays and skimming pages and spark-notes for reports.

It’s the only thing since losing my closest confidant that I can do to get some of the feelings out on to the digital space. “Losing” is a terrible term, but that’s what it feels like to me ultimately. Melodramatic me. Trying to tell myself to reasonably let go. It’s so fucking hard.

I err by hanging my dirty laundry out for everyone to see, but I just don’t care what people think of me. I’m being false by keeping things inside or pretending to be okay when I’m really not. I’ve been using the phrase ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ in reference to myself a lot lately. Futility. Futility.

These last few weeks I’ve found out I am indeed a jealous person. Amplify that by always having a low sense of self-esteem and bottom tier of self-worth and you’ve got one potent concoction to prolong this misery and a formidable weapon for the Black Dog to grasp firmly in his maw.  I need to take a paragraph to scream into the void, thus follows.

Why him? Why not me? Why is one man ostensibly worth more than another? When it all boils to molecules we’re all the same basic building blocks. Our actions are what define us as individuals, not the ooey gooey particles. This is rather new for me, this feeling of wanting what someone else has. I haven’t felt this way since I was a child pining over the newest bike in the neighborhood. I'm trying very hard not to measure myself to anyone's standards, especially my own.

Let me say, one thing that I do have insane pride in for myself is my drive. Passion? Obsession? One man’s trash... I have this will for a reason. This ultimately makes me a giant blithering hypocrite. To my friends that reach out to me I suggest wise and sage advice pertaining to relationships and life, as if I know any better. Blind leading the blind some would call it. Fact of the matter is I don’t practice what I preach, plain and simple. I tell people to get away from relationships that aren’t good for them or try and hear their problems and come up with reasonably solutions. Alas, here I sit, pretending what I feel is more pure or important than that of theirs. I’m immune to my own rules don’t you know?!

Such is that divine insight that has given me this ‘willpower’ to keep me trying, almost as though I feel blessed to have found ‘true love.’ I can’t explain why I feel so passionately about this. I just do. Could all be farce or the beginnings of a man destined to spend his life in a padded room.

In a time INSANE amounts of inward reflection and soul searching- this is one thing that I desperately cling to. I’m being swept away in the shit storm of self-destructive thoughts and this is the single ancient root most secure to the earth. I cling so tightly to this one positive emotion as my sneakers slowly slip off my feet in these gale force winds. There is absolutely no explaining this eloquently in words; maybe song- if I could sing. I understand why bloodshed occurs for some. I understand why sonnets were written, ballads crafted, poems cried. This is the most powerful force in the universe.

Break from the action.

Foo Fighters comes on the radio just now. Skip it Pandora. Can’t deal with what you make me feel right now. Weezer is next, these cruel dice rolls. Okay boys, let’s try a completely different genre and station. Coldplay following; some kind of cosmic joke. These are all bands that mean something to me on a deep level and out of sheer circumstance they hit the airwaves. You having a chuckle out there God?

Songs have this power. This power to make us think they were written for this moment we’re sitting in right now. The Verve wrote Bittersweet Symphony in 1997. They had no idea they really wrote it for a boy sitting in the soft glow of a monitor in the summer of 2013, 11:11pm. He clicks on his mechanical keyboard like it’s going to save the planet from exploding. Furiously typing; quickly this young man fixes mistakes, erases improper phrases, corrects terrible grammar (for the most part). He owns this song right now. It's not yours, it's his.

The song ends. I change the station. What plays next?

Dave Matthews Band – You & Me

This is stupid. I’ll take the hint. I’ve had enough of this for tonight.

*That quote at the beginning, made my draw slack when I read it. You should read it once more.