IV.

I’m back. Messy and miscalculated. Here to write stories that are the truth and far from it. Simultaneously, I keep it honest while I hide the realest parts of myself. I can’t tell what all of this is for, I had to imagine objectively how selfish I actually am. To stop communicating is poor jest. Because when I stop communicating the world stops talking to me, and they’re a motherfucker for that. I need help but I can’t articulate it, shouldn’t the universe coddle me for that? Send me a little cherub angel with soft cheeks and an arrow and promise that things will be okay while I lay in a bed tainted with trauma. 

I still don't know who I am. I get closer and further, then closer still and next thing I know I am in a valley looking at the peak of who I am and where I want to be. It’s a cruel joke it feels like, I feel like my potential is waning, losing power. That I won’t keep up with the young generation, that I am not decrepit like my elders. I am somewhere in the middle, reading the Road, the Dark Tower, books that make me feel the desolate bleed of the hero’s journey. Because there aren’t heroes, only people we perceive as mythical. It’s true. For now anyway, my boyish optimism is stained with memories of abandonment, mental breakdowns showing me the mind can be weaker than our body. It’s horrible to break down my tales of my life, I can’t even see them well. How long have I had amnesia? How long did I numb myself to this world so I could grind it out and recognize how hollow I’ve become? 

This emotional detachment when I have fight or flight, fear or hate. I can’t process them, I am told I am a sweetheart but I’ve got to be a real asshole to clock out the way I do. To choose distance where togetherness should be. To choose friction where flow should exist. Consciously mostly, unconsciously just as much. I thought I was made out of better star stuff, but really I am bitter like the dust underneath the gunslingers esoteric boots. This is trash to me, I can’t write how I’d like, the design is not in my control. Fucking writing songs and poetry is all I’ve ever known, how come I am in a phase now where I can hardly do it at all. How have I been so committed but feel flaky at the same time. My inability to be myself, to own who I am to the universe, to stop living two lives and just live the truth. My heart aches, my chest presses in on me but there is no weight physically forcing me and driving me inward.

We are a generation of narcissistic performers that don't really care about what each other have to say, think or feel. We like to get likes, comment to get comments, it’s like we took the wheel of karma and turned it into communal masturbation. I am disgusted at what we have devolved art, love, and creativity into. It’s all a fucking dystopia, marketed to us in real time. And since I am playing the part of doomer, the fucking cynic, the lashback and criticism will be because no one wants to see their reality displayed in front of them. They want their tailor made TikTok giving them the feed they need. Fuck this vampirism, I don’t give a fuck, but I will still post once a day in hope to siphon someones blood for money. Because I can’t live without it and I won’t. I used to do that and it’s not it.