6.
Slave or not isn’t really relevant anyway. THEY always find a way to get to you in the end, THEY being the little voice(s) inside your own head…
There was only ever one voice I heard tell me that I'm not good enough, and it was my own. No one ever told me not to reach for the stars, to find my own happiness or live this life the way I truly need to to let me be me; if they did, I never heard a word of it because I was too busy listening to my own self tell me these things.
To some, I imagine this may seem a bit woe-is-me; that's fine. You can think that if you want, I don't blame you. If I didn't know me I might think the same. But I do know me very well, so if that is how it sounds then thats just how it sounds, but to me it's very different.
Perhaps you don't have this problem and were blessed with high self-esteem and decisiveness, perhaps you're not so introverted and neurotic as to fly into a wild sort of thought paralysis over very simple things.
These tangents I go off on mean nothing, but I feel them so viscerally; I feel the anguish, the emotional turmoil I create in myself over what? Speculation, on my part. I can't say with any certainty that anyone in my life would react to the news of me leaving with shame or disgust the way I envision it. I am my own worst enemy, truly, and it's this constant inertia that contributes to my intense melancholia. Each day I'm becoming more of what I hate about the world. I’m a job with benefits, financial security but none of it means a damn thing. I'm ungrateful in my first world kind of way.
I am, however, not as selfish as I once thought. I hurt so because every day I give more of myself away; to my parents, to my friends, to the people I work with and for. I kill a little bit more of myself by modeling myself to the image I think they desire. It's not me. It never was. This is not something you can hide, deny or run from for any length of time. You can't run away from yourself; you're always right behind you.
So this is me now, and I'm learning this, but nothing ever gets any easier; not that I want it to, though. I just want the peace of mind and trust of my own heart so that I can live guilt-free in my own image.
7.
My own image consists of sexual tension and intelligent emotional reserve. Cougars like me. I like me too, what a pity. It looks so easy in the movies, with the partner of choice already on their back, legs spread, anticipating. It takes a lot of work to get to that point, work I am not as good at as I would like. Saves on trips to the clinic, however.
It’s not all that bad being sexually frustrated; some esoteric practices will even tell you how abstaining from releasing the sexual current will do all sorts of nifty and beneficial things for you. I believe most of them but they’re really just full of shit and need to get laid themselves. Too many headstands leech all that semen into the brain…
Watching porn on my phone just to stay awake.. Nodding.. Feeling the flow of currents I’ve been instructed to suppress. Time for a headstand.
Ineffective technique results in an awkward boner while inverted. ‘This is therapeutic’, I think..
This is what happens when you realize you will never live up to your ideals. Options present themselves and avenues open up, almost magically. Try door number 2.. Oops! Just excuse her, she’s breast-feeding. But she’s.. Doing… a….. Headstand? America’s got talent, sure enough; if you need more proof, there’s a television show, must be true then.
8.
Is any of it supposed to make sense? Who came along and decided to start making things orderly anyhow.. These fucking fascists are trying to kill my creativity, leaving me late and locked in back here with a dangerously flatulent mentally ill man. Nudity is the least of anyone’s concerns.
Normally I carry around my fancy little notebook but this creature is different; it prefers chaos to order, pocket-mangled pieces of printer paper to 90g Clairefontaine, gel to fountain pens. It’s raw, there’s something even slightly devious in it, like lusting someone hard imagination-style when you’re sitting right next to them in a crowded room. It’s ok, we all do it; consider it a compliment. You know what they say, great minds fuck each other. Or if they don’t, they really should.
Boredom. Lability.
I can’t even sit down right, I’m so loaded with bullshit ideas filling this drunk head of mine, even though I haven’t had a drink in days. I’m afraid my spine might break under the pressure, snapped clean in twice or thrice by the weight of ideas sloshing around up there, best to remain standing and at full attention.
I’m asexual now, that tends to happen over long periods of not getting it on. It’ll pass.
Finally the ideas let me rest my ass for a little and I sink back in my chair, smoking a mental cigarette. Great minds fuck each other..
9.
Lunch is over now, so it’s time to drag my carcass all the way back across the hall, resemble someone who is actually doing something other than nothing. I don’t know if anything ever gets done, really; it just seems that way, playing a part in some grand conspiracy straight out of the X-Files.
“The case of the disappearing work”.
-Did you do it? I did it. No you didn’t. I did it. Where is it? It’s right.. Shit. You didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.
-If you didn’t do it, someone else must have done it. Nah, just let it for tomorrow. I might be dead tomorrow. You’re dead today so what does it matter? I’ll let it for tomorrow.
Tomorrow: “Fuckin bastards always leave this shit piled up here for me. Sick of it!”
Another day of more of the same: dodging authority, escaping responsibility. It’s not that I’m opposed to any of these things, it’s just that I don’t give two shits enough to go out of my way to do it for a system that doesn’t give two shits for me. Unfortunately, most people have adopted this mindset and so no one wants to give a shit about the no shit-givers. The beatings will continue until morale improves, a sign once said. When you put it like that, the beatings will never stop.
10.
Finally made it through the day and out the door. It’s good to see everyone else sharing the same enthusiasm as me for leaving. Some stay and slowly commit themselves for eight more hours at a time, securing their failing health and mental status. It’s pretty bad when you have to go to work to escape your home life. Just saying. I really do feel bad.
Me, I just go from one plane of tedium to another, different one. Most people do, I guess. Sure, there’s lots of motion and goings on but for the most part it’s just the second wave of animated boredom. It only really hits you when you stop to think about it but it’s not so bad, at least there’s more enjoyable sources of entertainment at home; we can console or kill ourselves in any manner or speed with many methods available and easy payment options, to boot. It’s win-win.
Me, I choose to drive myself slowly insane by degrees of creativity. Sometimes I listen to angry music and give myself miniature concussions by chronic head-banging, sometimes I listen to nothing but the rats gnawing away at my own grey/gray matter. Most times, though, it’s a combination of the two.
I’m allergic to television, seem to have picked up the condition sometime during young adulthood, though watching other people travel enthralls me. I like to fill my head with knowledge of places I’ll probably never see anyway, but that’s depressing. I don’t really need to go there anyway because my heart and mind have been there, tasted the food and the culture; a part of me is there already. To travel in the physical sense seems a tad redundant, not that redundancy has ever stopped me from doing anything.
After feeding my travel tapeworm, I lock myself away in my room and thoughts for a few hours before bed; reading, writing, recounting, discounting.
Things start shutting down, gears grinding to a halt..
I fill my lungs with some form of contentment and let my dreams sort out the rest.
Goodnight.
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