And nothing really rocks
Meatloaf, “bat out of hell”
And nothing really rolls
And nothin’s ever worth the cost
So I am back at the violently apathetic stage of my mood cycle again.
Emphasis on the “pathetic”.
Right now I hate everything and everybody everywhere forever. Everything seems stupid and pointless and worthless and banal, especially myself.
Oh wah wah wah, I’m so special and so sad, woe is me, someone come treat me like the big bearded baby I am before I wet myself again!
Listen, fatso, you need to stop being such a pussy, grow a pair, and get to work. Moping never solved anything, so get off your big marshmallow of a butt and get shit done!
Thanks, me. I… needed that.
And I have a point there. I would probably be a lot better off if I invested time and energy and focus in finding meaningful things to do.
Stuff that is not just an entertaining distraction to keep my mind busy and engaged while I rot away on the inside on this slow trip to a hellish and pointless death I call my life.
Oh yeah. I’m in a real swell mood.
Give me credit, though. I keep trying to reanimate myself. But that huge Wound of mine just won’t let it happen. Any time I try to get motivated and develop some enthusiasm for life, or even just get my shit together enough to take care of myself properly. this terrible cold ache radiates from the wound to shut me down and leave me feeling more isolated and alienated than if I hadn’t even tried.
And then it’s a while before I can even think about trying again.
Because that’s what happens when you try to put weight on a broken limb. It’s more than just painful, it’s the kind of pain that makes you never want to do that again.
Except that “that” covers damned near everything besides just barely making it through the day while my ship burns down to the waterline.
It is a lot like being crippled. And I suppose I really am crippled. Psychologically, and increasingly, physically as well.
But I need more. I want more. I crave more like a junkie craves junk.
I know that somewhere in me there is a strong, bold, confident, and utterly fantabulous person ready to bust out of this shell and land squarely on center stage with a flourish and a bow and a musical TA DA! and fix the audience with a killer smile and say “You can relax, everybody…. I’m finally here. ”
And then the crowd goes absolutely wild.
More after the break.
A conversation I can imagine myself having :
A : Wow, I can’t believe you got the answer right. I could have sworn you were pulling that answer out of your ass.
Me : Oh I was. It just also happened to be the right answer.
(A gapes at me. )
Me : What can I say, I’ve got a really smart ass.
Making a choice
I hereby declare the happier, stronger, more confident version of myself that I have glimpsed recently to be the real me.
Fuck this limpid loser I’ve been pretending to me. That’s just a phase I’ve been going through. A stage in my evolution, nothing more, and it is no more the “real” me than a butterfly is “really” just a caterpillar.
And that’s true no matter how long it was a caterpillar.
Hey, perfection takes time.
So fuck this cramped and claustrophobic chrysalis. I am busting out in style. I outgrew this coffin a long long time ago and it’s high time I rose from my grave and took a walk in the sunlit lands above.
Sure, I might burst into flame.
But that will pass, and nothing of value will be lost.
I am gonna grow and grow like I am turning into Godzilla, and fuck anything that even thinks of trying to restrict me.
How can you stand to be so limited?
Walter bishop, “fringe”
I never identified with Walter harder than when he said that.
And that’s saying something.
And you’re right. Walter. I can’t stand being so limited any more. I am tired of cloaking my true stature in order to hide from the world like a coward.
But I am not a coward. I’m a giant. A titan of talent and intellect. My assets are gargantuan and my liabilities are miniscule.
People like me aren’t expected to be good at everyday life. Does anyone care if Einstein kept a tidy desk? Whether Ray Bradbury kept track of important correspondence? Whether Martin Luther was a slob?
Of course not. What mattered was what they were capable of doing on a large scale, the scale of history and literature and pop culture.
And believe me, I can do a lot. I got gigawatts of power under every fingertip and a little golden key to the place where all things come together and a red hot hotline to the angels of our better natures and the strange but telling insight of a holy visionary but without all the transcendentalist bullshit that usually comes with it.
I am more than passing strange, with an otherworldly nature that gathers gossamer threads of truth and knits them into the swords and armor of the gentlest of jihads.
Hmmm. There’s a lot more but I am out of manic energy.
My point is that I am far too grand a creature to allow myself to languish in this petty little prison of mine. One way or another. I am going to transcend my cell and use it as the basis for my next evolution.
And everything that has come before will become a part of me, integrated and fierce and ready to fight the whole damned world if that’s what it takes to make a place for myself that I can be proud of.
Or at least that doesn’t make me cringe with shame.
That’s not too much to ask, is it?
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.