Further commentary on the stranger that is me.
"Maybe I should feel like I am walking on cracking glass, an unimaginable void waiting below the fragile clearness, watching with intent predatory interest, waiting to devour me if and when my tactless foot shatters my foothold. Maybe I should be feeling that time is running out, that another day has gone by without me being one step closer to financial independence, or on the longer timeline, that another day has gone by with me just breathing and talking, actionless. Maybe I should be feeling humility, being humbled by my own pathetic inability to do something as simple as pay my own rent, saved by my loving sister who would support me nonetheless, but filled with incompetence and humiliation anyway. Maybe I should be feeling broken pride, because my drawings, and now even my cognitive and linguistic functions, are not at the level they should be for the prodigious brain that exists behind my blue eyes. Maybe I should be feeling apprehension, searching in the mirror for every flaw I can find in my face that makes me repulsive, looking with revulsion at how skinny I have become after having lost 10-15 pounds of muscle I originally built up when I moved to Tucson, grasping the lazy flesh that has settled on my stomach where there was once a six-pack with disgust and self-hatred. Maybe I should feel terrified that someone is interested in me, that someone wants to be close to me even if it's just in thought or as a passing phase that will flit as merrily to its own eventual death as a butterfly, oblivious to both it's own innate beauty and the sorrow of its eventual funeral at a cruel, cold world.
Maybe I should be thinking a lot of things which would be realistic examinations of the way my life is currently heading. Maybe.
I feel, instead, like I'm staring all of those facts of life or half-truths or downright lies meant at self-destruction in the face, and they're towering over me like an impasse of the most horrid kind, a monstrously deviant mountain whose crags jut forth from the blank horror of the human condition and whose winds cut blindly through the hearts of the weak and whose razorbacked peaks flay even the most self-assured soul. This, however, is not just how I feel. It is how both I feel and how I see my current situation, an infinite miasma of paths that all lead to the same deadly mirage of a mount that spells my doom. But it is not the only way I feel.
I feel like I could blow that fucking mountain away and stroll nonchalantly through the blackened, razed earth where it once stood impregnably. It's a dangerous feeling, to be sure. Very dangerous. It's the type of thing that gets me into trouble. In fact, it is the only thing that has gotten me into meaningful trouble on countless days in my quickly fading, irrelevant history; the day I quit my job; the day at work I reamed the Regional Manager for going back on his word; the day I decided to move to Tucson with my sister on a whim; the day I told my teachers I was not going to turn in the work they requested because to think at the level required to finish the work I knew they wanted required me to be dumber than I am, and all but two of my teachers refused to give me more difficult work; the day I turned in, promptly and with true pride, the assignments given to me by my History and English/Philosophy teachers and got high marks not because I told them what they wanted but because I told them what I thought; the many times I got low marks in my English and History classes because I didn't push myself, being severely punished not because I wrote outside of the topic but because I got lazy; the days when I found ways to beat my math teacher to the answer using a simpler but still viable methodation for my calculations; the countless days I didn't sit meekly back and accept alms because I was smart, days which I instead stood with my head held high because I knew I was better.
Days like today, when I see my empty fate spanning below me in a vast, frozen urban sprawl that I turn away from to head deeper into the dense, wild forest of my mind.
It's dangerous, so very sweetly deadly, to the social being that struggles for acceptance but never gets it, because that shallow part of my mind realizes how very irrelevant it is to my own contentment and sense of being. It's dangerous because it burns people who get too close to it, and sometimes those people are those that aren't ready to be burned and don't understand that it means only good.
I can't accept failure in myself, yet I fail consistently. But I get up, day in and day out, not to fail again, but to raze my past failures out of my path to fail again at something else, to have my hopes doused in the waters of an irrealistic pessimism that pervades most all human thought. The next day the pessimism squirms, dying, it's black, mottled skin boiling as I stare down at with contempt. This is why this feeling is dangerous. This is why danger is such a good thing, though few people realize it. To be safe is to be motionless, immutable, and ultimately boring. To stare danger, our personal monster and Messiah, in the face and to laugh is to live and go on living.
A small part of me believes that I am destined to be alone; it is not depressed or aghast at this possibility, it just accepts it as something that must be. A much larger part of me feels that it would be a shame not to share the fire with others and to avoid seeing the trails of fire we burn through existence on our way out.
This is not the way I will live my life, the True Way that only I can live; it is a mere prologue to thoughts, dreams, and realities so fantastic I cannot yet grasp them. But as a prologue, it serves very well to set the tone of my reality: my reality is my own, and it burns with a fire that is impossible to silence and quell. Try and beat me. I welcome the whatever mere challenge you may pretend to offer me.
Dangerous indeed. I love it. Playing with fire, melding eternal souls, and observing my creation."
No matter how many times I try to reason with myself that the individual cannot help but change, I still cannot prevent myself from wondering, in loss, apprehension, and a glaring self-hatred, just what the fuck happened to the kid that wrote this, and how I was dumb enough to stray from his path.
I wish him well, wherever he's gone off to. It helps to take my mind off of me.
I haven't posted for a while because I've nothing of importance to say to myself two years from now. I greatly doubt I'll have anything worthwhile to say in the near future, either, but I read this and felt compelled to force my thoughts into reality so I couldn't muddle things up later.