I know I don’t really enjoy this, but I continue on. Out of some quite desperation – I’m not exactly sure.
I’ve said it before – things aren’t exactly bad, but I do think of my life slipping away from me.
I don’t why I always come here to write such melancholy things – I do often feel moments of exuberance, sometimes protracted… although often fleeting.
I thought a short while ago of providing more of a narrative thread to this blog. I think I should change it around. It does give me some comfort that I can make it whatever I want, and let it stand or fall as it is.
Giving myself over to something I don’t quite believe in… to slander the gift of life. This question hovers, and as of yet I don’t quite have an explanation, only pragmatic excuses. That’s all I can give perhaps at the moment, until I find a solution… to somehow lift myself out.
I find it difficult authentic, and yes… honest. I think of how my profession smoothes the edges out of an individual, makes them less them harmful or capable of harm. The goal so often, by necessity, is to be inoffensive, to be non-controversial, to tow the line and take up a view… of whatever’s in vogue, and of course drop any otherwise offensive, harmful, or controversial opinions by the wayside. Be an open book, and be inscrutable.
So I speak sometimes, and I formulate ideas and sentences, and I feel I’m skipping across the surface – as if I’m not expressing myself, but rather trying to take a position that “sound” right, that rings true in the context, or that might make some fictional audience or overload smile tenderly. To say the right thing. To speak past one another, and end up saying very little all. To assent in the moment, but not wholeheartedly… more so out of meekness and timidity.
I know I’m a writer. I feel I’ve never cultivated anything seriously. Maybe I’m not even a writer, yet this profession or this role seems least offensive to me… or the most exalted and freeing.
I know this ins’t exactly a good life I’m living now, and that I might regret living it later on… when I’m older and time has passed. At the same time it does seem like the easier option, the one with more surety and predictability… and stability, free of great highs and lows. So I would trade toil for something more authentic and dangerous. Perhaps I’m not built for the grand wager, to speak truths, claiming my life for myself and seizing my fate. To rather give oneself… as a limp and halfhearted offering on the alter of pragmatics and necessity. To give oneself over to a hollow dream and the exigencies of the moment.
I know I should leave. To seize my own fate…