(no subject)
If I said I was having fun, I'd be lying. Not caring for anyone in particular is beginning to drain me. I am so hungry for love that I am beginning to expect it around each corner, when in all reality it isn't going to happen. I don't want to build upon anything. I've spent a lot of time doing that already. All I've built has been wasted, leaving me with no drive to really begin a new emotional project. I suppose that in all reality this decision isn't up to me. It's up to whatever-or whomever-fate decides to throw my way. Though part of me believes there's no such thing as a destiny. It's all fictitious theories fabricated for the purpose of obtaining a legitimate excuse for things.
An explanation as to why part of me believes it exists is unfeasible. My mind is such a confusing place. It's got more than enough anomalies, loop holes, dead-ends, contradictions, rationalizations, excuses, theories, ideas, and beliefs. Yet, not one of the members occupying this list ever seem to fit into one another. Years ago, everything was set. My mind was a picture perfect puzzle. Together, her and I took our time and assembled it piece by piece. It was this lackadaisical process that made it beautiful. In a more recent time frame it was as if we'd taken each and every piece and tossed it nonchalantly into its box. Parts of it remained attached to its adjacent sections. Other pieces left alone, face down, losing the ability to clearly see the picture. In the time of Aftermath, I opened that box. When drinking, crying, and the remainder of my pass times were found to be absent; I began the attempt of piecing this back together...alone. I'd discovered this task to be exponentially more difficult. I'd force pieces together, distorting the image to make it appear to be a snug fit. I soon lost interest in this rigorous task.
I guess that's when the "fun" began. For a while it was just that: fun. Doing whatever, whenever, wherever was one of the most paramount experiences I'd had in a while. Parties, bars, and friends appeared to be all important. What good are parties if nobody their likes you, bars if nobody cares to know you, and friends when none of them care to be true? Most would venture to use the Law of Common Denominators, and diagnose themselves as the problem. Me? I know I am great. I'm not claiming to be the most amazing person you'll ever encounter. I'm not even claiming to be anything above average. Yet, the qualities I do possess make me feel like the King of the World at times. I'm goddamn talented. Not a literal moment passes when I am not creating some form of lyrical measure in this head of mine. I strum day by day on a chosen weapon of choice from my limited arsenal of guitars, searching for the most beautiful things to express in song. I want to move people. I long for a minute quantity of the population to just feel what I feel. I want to be understood, and that reason alone remains the solitary reason for my loneliness. I'll go out of my way, and mind, for anyone that I care about. It truly is disgusting when I put others before myself. I have selfish tendencies here and there, who doesn't? This confidence of mine is grotesque. If I fascinate myself and see myself as a decent human being, then why the fuck am I so irrefutably miserable.
This isn't the kind of misery that finds me late at night, bringing wet pillows with a shower of tears. This isn't the kind of misery one obtains during a torture session. It's the sort that I've accepted. The type that looms above every-goddamn-day. The type that's instilled itself within your veins, leaving you surprised when a day goes well. This is the kind of misery that disappears for months on end only to return once your eyes have met it after a long while.
It's late, I am tired, and must wake early tomorrow. Perhaps I'll return to this.
An explanation as to why part of me believes it exists is unfeasible. My mind is such a confusing place. It's got more than enough anomalies, loop holes, dead-ends, contradictions, rationalizations, excuses, theories, ideas, and beliefs. Yet, not one of the members occupying this list ever seem to fit into one another. Years ago, everything was set. My mind was a picture perfect puzzle. Together, her and I took our time and assembled it piece by piece. It was this lackadaisical process that made it beautiful. In a more recent time frame it was as if we'd taken each and every piece and tossed it nonchalantly into its box. Parts of it remained attached to its adjacent sections. Other pieces left alone, face down, losing the ability to clearly see the picture. In the time of Aftermath, I opened that box. When drinking, crying, and the remainder of my pass times were found to be absent; I began the attempt of piecing this back together...alone. I'd discovered this task to be exponentially more difficult. I'd force pieces together, distorting the image to make it appear to be a snug fit. I soon lost interest in this rigorous task.
I guess that's when the "fun" began. For a while it was just that: fun. Doing whatever, whenever, wherever was one of the most paramount experiences I'd had in a while. Parties, bars, and friends appeared to be all important. What good are parties if nobody their likes you, bars if nobody cares to know you, and friends when none of them care to be true? Most would venture to use the Law of Common Denominators, and diagnose themselves as the problem. Me? I know I am great. I'm not claiming to be the most amazing person you'll ever encounter. I'm not even claiming to be anything above average. Yet, the qualities I do possess make me feel like the King of the World at times. I'm goddamn talented. Not a literal moment passes when I am not creating some form of lyrical measure in this head of mine. I strum day by day on a chosen weapon of choice from my limited arsenal of guitars, searching for the most beautiful things to express in song. I want to move people. I long for a minute quantity of the population to just feel what I feel. I want to be understood, and that reason alone remains the solitary reason for my loneliness. I'll go out of my way, and mind, for anyone that I care about. It truly is disgusting when I put others before myself. I have selfish tendencies here and there, who doesn't? This confidence of mine is grotesque. If I fascinate myself and see myself as a decent human being, then why the fuck am I so irrefutably miserable.
This isn't the kind of misery that finds me late at night, bringing wet pillows with a shower of tears. This isn't the kind of misery one obtains during a torture session. It's the sort that I've accepted. The type that looms above every-goddamn-day. The type that's instilled itself within your veins, leaving you surprised when a day goes well. This is the kind of misery that disappears for months on end only to return once your eyes have met it after a long while.
It's late, I am tired, and must wake early tomorrow. Perhaps I'll return to this.