I woke up feeling a bit mortified where I left things off.
It was the internet equivalent of throwing yer shit from a bucket out onto the streets. Part of me was thinking just to delete it and go again, but fuck it, what good is it if I try to craft an image of myself. Just go whole hog, take it or leave, warts and all!
Some might say that’s admirable…
I suppose let’s talk interests. If there’s something I love, its storytelling.
I love storytelling.
Whether it be just a small joke to some epic book or film, I just love stories. I don’t care what it is about, in whatever time it is you have me for, I want to believe in what you’re sharing. Wrestling, comics, books, Tv, films, some loon just having a rant, whatever it is your feeding me, I’m right here to eat it up. And my appetite for stories? It’s fucking ravenous.
But, I think that’s a bit of my issue too. I spent all this time indulging in other people’s work, I never did find time to do it myself. I think we’ve all had that itch right? To want to write? I don’t know if I’ve met a person who never wanted to write. It’s just something that stirs in everyone.
So I never scratched the itch. I did a brief course on journalism. Sorry, I was in a journalism course briefly, but then I quit it. I just felt I had nothing new to say. Who would stop and listen to a dude like me? Better yet, who would pay to listen to me when I’d happily rant away for free!
The itch grew. Rather than scratch it so I could move on, I just ignored it, so it buried deeper into me. I’d never do anything to deal with it.
It turned into something unhealthy, maybe even poisonous.
I wasn’t going to chase it as that was my dream. I’m sure that makes sense to some folks but I’ll say it again for those who missed it.
I wasn’t going to chase writing because it was my dream.
And really, you have to ask, what sort of sense does that make? So I’ll explain it as best I can. All I could think was this; once I’ve chased that dream and failed, what the fuck do I do now? What happens next?
I mean, in my wildest fantasies chasing becoming an author or a critic or comedian or, whatever it is I did chase, I still fail.
Conversely, I hadn’t it in me to do anything else. It’s easy to dismiss it as laziness or just shortsightedness (and you’d probably be right too) but allow me to be somewhat romantic about it. I couldn’t let myself learn to drive or aim for a decent job or even a night course. Why?
The answer is obvious to those who have shared this defeated mindset.
To look at anything else, to try for something other is a distraction. It’s like admitting that the dream is just that. A dream.
And so, that itch becomes more than a hole. The hole has enough space in it to fill me up. And in a sense, it gave birth. To another me. And inside myself we battle, neither side winning over the other.
Leaving me as this, the Stalemate. Limbo is real, and it is of our own creation.
Jeez, I went really up my own arse up there, didn’t I? I sat here thinking I should just nix it but again, I mean that’s the point of this place. That’s what I want it to be.
It’s me, warts and all.