June20
For the first time in who-knows-when, I actually feel like writing something. I’ve been so disconnected lately (lately meaning, who-knows-how-long). It’s hard for me to pin point exact moments, because I can say that I feel like I haven’t really written anything in a long time when, in fact, I wrote a complete song a few weeks ago (Memorial Day Weekend), and more recently (last week), have started writing music for a wonderful song by an amazing girl. In the span of a day I can reach climaxing highs and deep lows. I can feel like a success and a failure. I can feel like I’m growing up and like I’m still an eight year old child. I can feel doomed to live a life I never imagined or relieved that it’s an a(n) (dis)illusion.
What am I really even connected to anymore? Was I more plugged in when I would often jot down fragmented pieces of writing in my notebooks, or does it just seem that way now that I can read it all back? Writing has no time to it. It could take me a half hour to assemble all these random and disconnected thoughts, but that moment is forever encapsulated in the short amount of time it takes for me to read it back. A work of art that took months or years to create can be digested in minutes, hours. Our small lives are minutes in hindsight.
This is probably the first time I’ve felt connected to my writing in a while. I haven’t had much to say otherwise, but now it feels like I do. I base so much on how things feel, as if there’s some sort of physical component to everything. If I don’t feel a particular way, my actions and behavior have to be based around that, otherwise I will feel like I’m being fake, a phony. It’s ridiculous, yes, because often times I don’t feel like doing fuck all, so I don’t; I sit there and stare, retreat into my wasteland mind, I burn minutes and hours out of the day and tally up more time that I will one day regret wasting. I neglect writing, I neglect social contact, I neglect life. The sad thing is, I’d much rather vent about it than actually do anything to fix it.
Maybe I just create problems for myself so I can have something to strive towards fixing, or so I create some sort of self-journey to work though this and that and get to point X and all will be better. Maybe I like bitching. No, not maybe; yes, I like to complain about problems. Yes, I like to feel like a victim. It’s the only time people actually care, or so it seems. I have this constant burning inside of me to be significant, to be something, yet I do nothing constructive to further this. All right, I take that back; I don’t spend enough time on the constructive ventures. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I have been recording the songs that I’ve been kicking around for too-fucking-long, I’ve been working on signing so that I can lay down some good vocals. I could be doing more, but I don’t. Again, I’d rather complain than fix.
When I am going to finally grow the fuck up and take charge of my station in life? When am I going to stop feeling like I’m permanently fifteen years old, permanently awkward, permanently hated by my peers? When will I feel some real, actual, sustaining self-worth, not these bullshit fleeting moments when I listen back to a song I recorded with a smile and a chuckle and think, “Damn, this is really good,” or when I look at myself in the mirror and think, “You know, you’re not such a bad looking guy?” When will I accept the fact that there are more talented, better looking people than me, and stop using that as a deterrent for building myself up and doing my own thing? I’m just one more meatbag trying to mark my place in the dirt just like everyone else, for better or for worse. When will I not only write that, but actually believe it?
When will I ever have faith?