i’m ugly, hopefully you are too
I’m a part-time, semi-successful blogger in the sense that sometimes I write blogs and sometimes a lot of people read them. I’m an incredibly successful writer in the sense that every time I write something down I learn something about myself.
I don’t give a fuck why we are here on this planet. I mean I do, but there’s no point. I get overwhelmed and confused and look really hard for an explanation. Then I end up believing someone else’s theory because I get to stop thinking about it temporarily.
We have to face our questions. Hunt them down and fucking kill them. Or they will never go away.
We use words like “journey” or “path” to explain things that we don’t understand. And it works because it’s the closest we can get to anything that feels kinda right inside. I mean I read The Alchemist and felt like I had just snorted a heaping line of fairy dust. The shit works. But it’s not my story and after the connection faded I was left with the same life.
I can’t go around blaming retrogrades and full moons for things, I feel like a clown. And I can’t use my sun sign to explain my behavior; it’s inconclusive. At best, we do things like this because it’s the closest thing to an explanation for all of our questions. It gives us a place to store all of our fear and our doubt and let’s us sleep at night.
I don’t want to sleep in that nest.
I don’t know what the stars are doing out there and I never will.
I do know that when I sit down and write, when I sit down and work, when I make things happen, then I feel alive and I do not give a shit about the questions of the universe or the circumstances that are supposed to be limiting me. I don’t ask for signs, I just operate and it’s simple and my mind is clear.
It’s so much easier to write about shit that gives people hope than actuallyliving a life that is really changing anything. It is so much easier to write about what needs to be done than to actually do it.
But what is the glorification of writing words to inspire others when the authors aren’t living proof of their power?
I want to be a person that is actually doing things. And I want to be around more people like this. Where are they? I can’t seem to find them. It seems like they don’t care about publishing their thoughts or seeking recognition for their work. They’re sitting in a cabin somewhere building shit and they aren’t impressed by what I say. Where are the words that will bring them to me?
I write to understand myself. I write something and learn something about myself and then do something to change it, fix it, or swallow a pill of acceptance knowing there are things about me that are just shitty.
I try to write words that are true. I look back at them and try to see my life objectively. I notice the stories I’ve been telling myself when I’m scared and need to make excuses and I see the progress I’ve made in the moments I’ve acted with courage. I decide what I like and try to make more of it. Then I try to deal with what I don’t like either by choking it to death or taking more accountability.
Sometimes, I use words to hide. But I’m not hiding anymore. I’m using them to teach me about who the fuck I really am so that if I’m driving in a car and I adjust the rearview mirror to see out the back window and I catch a glimpse of my eyes I will be looking at someone real.
I wasn’t born the most confident person in the world. More like the most neurotic and self-doubting. Living in the moment is foreign to me. I’ve never felt a great connection to things around me. My anxiety is incredible. I lose entire days thinking about things that don’t really matter. I hate waiting at stoplights; it’s such an inefficient use of my time. I hurts my chest when it takes an idea too long to show up in the real world, I’d fucking pull my own heart out if I could.
Things don’t mildly affect me; they crush me.
When I’m productive my brain starts to produce this chemical in my body that makes me feel like Bradley Cooper from Limitless. I never use substances to alter my energy, I don’t trust them in my body and I don’t trust myself on them. I don’t want to be so uptight. I want to be free.
These are all things I’ve learned about myself through writing. It’s great, but it’s terrible. Some of these things I just can’t change. All I can do is change my circumstances so the nasty parts aren’t fueled. I’m manipulating my environment to show up a certain way. Is this what we are all doing?
You only kiss someone for the first time once. After that it’s been done. There’s no enlightenment that competes with new experiences. I spend every day teaching myself lessons when I could just be free of responsibility. I think I’m punishing myself. I’m choking something out of me that has been holding me back. I need to know that I can follow through on things and adapt if I need to.
Nothing about responsibility is natural to me. It’s all been learned. Everything I am today has been learned. If I had it my way I might just sit on my couch all day and watch movies and masturbate and feel pathetic.
I constantly put myself in challenging situations so I have to get scrappy. If my life isn’t on the line then I’m not motivated to do anything.
I don’t know if I can read anymore inspirational articles. I don’t think it’s a good use of my time. What do I do with all the inspiration I find chasing someone else’s story? I want my life to be real.
I have to work hard to stay out of the gutter. And the inspiration is nice but if it doesn’t lead to practice a week later I’m more depressed than ever. Middle paths have never existed for me. I prefer to slam my body back and forth between steel curtains. I slam myself really hard so I have more space to travel next time through, but I know for damn certain that I’ll be back to the dumps soon after I’ve climbed the mountain of motivation and inspiration.
As a writer how do I not feel like a hypocrite?
I’m trying to figure this shit out and I want the freedom to do that. Maybe some of it translates to others but we’ll never figure out who we are by following someone else’s words.
I can show two sides at any time and they would both be equally as real. One of them is clean, healthy, and incredibly interested in being successful. The other is dark, uncertain, and in love with cigarettes and emotional experiences. I keep telling myself to move towards the light and to be pure and motivated and focused, but the desire to obliterate myself never goes away.
In a year or two more I will probably be incredibly wealthy because business is hardwired into my brain and I’ve dragged my ass on the ground long enough avoiding my potential but I’ve seen the bullet that takes me to the promise land and my eyes are on it and my teeth are in it and there won’t be much anyone can do to stop me – but know this – I would trade it all for those few moments before kissing someone for the first time.
