Sometimes I wonder what all of this is for, the writing. I wonder if it’s a way to work out some of my own issues, to encapsulate them. Is all of this meandering about you and I, or is it just completely about myself? When did it come to be that way. Am I being selfish, or is this how it was always meant to be. You getting to see me for who I am, with some censorship, of course. I don’t really know if you’re ever going to read all these words anyway. Does that make this a foolish enterprise?
When I was much younger, I knew that I had a way with words. I could string together sentences in a way that some could not. I could display some sense of talent when I sat at a keyboard. Maybe because it was because I tried for it, I worked at it. I am no longer working at it. When I was not too much younger I was absolutely sure that the best way to be a writer was to be miserable. You had to dwell in a state of discontentment, near anguish. But part of me reveled in it, because I had not truly stepped forward into the world. I had time to fuck up and miss and change my bearing. I was still bowling with the bumpers.
Now I am freshly 32 years old and the world continues to grow heavier, kiddo. Depression has begun to become an intolerable burden, a burden I gladly carried in some regards as an idealist—despite as it may have seemed in my writing my entire life leading up to now, I was still idealistic; I was certain that a new and bright future was just ahead; I was still just waiting for long enough to have the perspective to see everything fully. I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that I am, despite my best intentions, in a place I never wanted to be.
I wanted to be an artist, in some regards. I wanted to be able to see the world in a different way than everyone around me. I wanted to be able to transcribe those sentiments into words for others to feast on, to aspire to, and to fear. I wanted to be deeply intellectual and still pleasant and charming and full of love and compassion. But I have ended up with very few of those things now, at least all the things in very small degrees.
This all sounds so dire and final, but I know it’s not. But, it’s hard to see too far ahead when the road winds so terribly.
I recently experienced the greatest heartache I have ever felt. Something that has changed my world so drastically. It’s been 5 weeks now, and I still don’t quite know how to deal with it, because I am still grieving, in my own way. I can’t really tell you about it because it’s not really my story to tell. I am just a passenger along for the ride, in the back seat on the roads that are winding so terribly. I don’t know what it all means yet, or if it even means anything at all. There will be a time when none of this matters anymore, and maybe it was all for the best. But I can’t see that yet, kiddo.
Then I find myself here, in this very moment questioning if I am perfectly fucked for life. If the emotional baggage of my lifetime is now all of a sudden coming up the conveyor belt to the carousel. I have no choice but to carry it all, because it’s mine. My luggage is a part of me, ingrained for life, so there’s no leaving it, spinning haplessly on the conveyor because it must come with me.