Feelings

A few weeks ago I went to a show put on by a friend of mine. Julia was at work, and normally I would have just stayed home (sic), but it was important to him, so I went for support. I saw a lot of people there that Julia and I hang out with on a semi-regular basis. I felt absolutely no desire or compulsion to interact with them at all.

I feel so incapable of connecting with most people. I feel like the only personality I have is the one I keep to myself. I feel like other people must view me as extremely boring.

I feel wasted.

Bulwark

Even the strongest defenses crack over time. 

It came slowly at first; lurking in the shadows it created. A whisper here, a drop of water there. That was then. Today, it's a cacophony and a deluge - there are no breaks, no wanes.

I wonder if the walls were keeping it out, or keeping me in for the past nine years. Was it out there the whole time; lurking in the depths, waiting for its opportunity? Or was it just me in my fortress, alone and high on victory; oblivious to its inevitable recurrance?

Almost a decade, and it all comes crumbling down around me.

Nothing but rubble at my feet and my enemy is all around me. Surrounding me and consuming me.

I don't think the same tricks will work; it's adapted. If I'm going to survive, I will need new weapons and new tactics. I don't have either.

Where is the line...

...between impulse and addiction?

...between  enjoyment and enslavement?

...does it even exist at all?

(d)Elusion

When I listen to local bands, I know I could do better - I have not.

When I read short stories, I know I could write better - I have not.

Maybe it's arrogant of me to think these things, but that doesn't stop me. I constantly criticize everything around me.

So why don't I do these things? At the first sign of difficulty, I fold. When I reach the first hill, I crumple to the ground.

From a technical standpoint, I know how to write. Perhaps even very well. When it comes to writing for creative output, though, I can't seem to get started.

When it comes to music, I can write catchy hooks and wonderful melodies, but for the life of me, I can't put them together. I studied music theory for two years, and I can't even put together a damned pop song.

It's tempting to think I'm intellectually lazy, and that's the conclusion I generally come to, but that's not it, really. I think a million miles a minute - inventing things that should be or that could be, planning crimes I would never commit, replaying conversations on an infinite loop, plotting our finances, pondering the human condition. Almost always I think about these things at the same time. 

I suffer because I... - ...should build a Telecaster Plus, but I wonder if I could add... - ...that I get paid next week, and Julia... - ...might be wrong; could the area around that house on Walnut Street really be THAT... - ...

desire.atremelo.didthisweek.horrible?

I never stop thinking. Never. I have trouble falling asleep because my mind just won't stop. I re-write just about anything with an 'edit' button, over and over again (even this blog post). So how can I be intellectually lazy? No, that just isn't it.

I don't fear failure, because I have no delusions about the possibility of success. It's something else.

Thinking about it - REALLY thinking about it - it all draws back to the beginning (of this blog, at least). I constantly criticize EVERYTHING; even myself. I don't write because when I formulate a plot, it's not good enough. I don't put my music together because no verse I've written is good enough to go with any chorus I've written; they both deserve better. I critique word choice, punctuation placement, sentiments, premise, quality, consistency...everything.

For every thought I have, there are two more criticizing it, plotting how it could be better. I never stop thinking about how I could do better - but I never do.

Perfection

If I had a hundred years to perfect each sentence, I still don't think it would be enough time.

Patternized

The sound of my wheel spinning has given me a horrible headache.

The same songs, the same dinners, the same hangovers.

Life has become so rote. Or maybe it's always been this way.

I am that I am.

I feel...

I could have been anything, and was nothing.

...old.