I stopped writing for a while, obviously.That doesn't mean I've stopped fighting with the Dog. I got bored of giving it power. I got bored of rehashing the same stupid metaphors. Writing is boring.
All this time though, all this time... I was still and am still in the middle of it. I should be grateful that I had some positive times, that there were indeed some genuine smiles along the way in these last few years.
I've had a lot of life experience since painting that alley wall white. (It was painted over less than four hours later, basically.) Despite me being absolutely disgusted with myself and my words, part of me still wants to chronicle, part of me still wants to share. I want to share what I've been through, as fruitless as it may be.
I'm hollow.
Looking for relief seems absurd. It's like I'm trying to ladle water out of a shipwreck already laid to rest at the bottom briny deep. Even now, this sentence.. why? So a dozen people can maybe read it? Relate? To what end? It doesn't fix us. It doesn't last.
I'm tired.
I'm tired of living from rare burst of happiness to the next, weeks apart. I find it an incredibly difficult endeavor to trudge along here, now. I'm not talking in the living-life sense. I'm talking in the even-sparing-five-minutes-to-write-this-bullshit sense. Nothing I say is new, nothing I can create hasn't been created, muse, mused, ad infinitum. So why?
If I'm being honest, and I think I am, I posit that it's so someone will feel sorry for me. On the surface and to save face I would never openly admit to that. If you see me on the street and ask directly, I'll call you a liar. If you have a print-out of this paragraph and show it, shaking and cursing, I'll still call you a liar.
Maybe it grants a breath of realness to this thing. This otherworldly thing that defines concrete description. Maybe it's all worth it if someone goes "well, damn, that boy sure is a little blue."
Currently, there are some actual reasons why I'm struggling today... this minute. Reasons that exist beyond some positivist defined chemical misfire in my brain, reasons that are actual tangible things.
Maybe I'll go share those stories, those fruitless tales. For now though, I'm still smoldering. I just want the pain to stop.
I found your blog by way of art alley. I'm a garbage man, so I shoot through the alleys fairly often. I understand all to well the struggle. I always called it my dark demon, but I like black dog, it suits. I won't subscribe to your blog, but I will stop in from time to time to read up on your thoughts. You've got a unique way with words, like a well read author from the 20's. Try to remember that no one has to feel what you feel to be a friend, and your only ever truly alone if you choose it.
ReplyDeleteI just stumbled across this Brett and I thought you should know I read it. You describe depression very well. I have been battled it too in the past and I have not wanted to write either, while in the depths of it. I think you are brave to chronicle this. I wish you well. 🙏🏻🌿
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