exercise 01/07/2008
I'm an inmate in an unlocked prison. There are no guards, there is no uniform, there is no sentence to speak of. But that sense of imprisonment still remains.
The walls are in my head, the walls are in my room, the pale and sickly color of flesh consumed by malnutrition and rot. It's tiny, dark, and smells like sweat and smoke. The lighting is sharp and clinical, no room for shadows or secrets of any sort. I sleep on a cot, again resonating with the sensation of imprisonment. I sometimes catch myself dreaming of the soft bedding and warm sense of home that awaits me when I get out, only I was never in.
Everything about this feels temporary, except for the fact that it's been this way for a year at least. I can vaguely remember when I still told myself that things would change soon. Now that seems like the mindless chatter of a completely different person, one with hopes and dreams for a life that means more than this.
Perhaps this has been a long time coming. Perhaps the fact that I have gone the last five years without anything even resembling a purpose is starting to really wear down on my fragile self-esteem. Something like a hideous fear-of-failure complex overshadowing my every move and sucking away my will to act. This life has never been anyone else's but mine, but it seems like almost anything I've ever taken an interest in was someone else's obsession first. I just kind of hopped on the bandwagon because if they thought this thing (whatever it may have been) was so deadly wicked then there must be something to it.
But this is all speculation. One of the nice things about being a total head-case is never being afraid to admit a possible mistake. Quite the opposite, in fact. Over-analyzing my own mistakes and failures, and obsessing over things about which I can do nothing, has become a regular part of my day to day life.
Although, really? If one were to delve in a clinical fashion into my mind in an attempt to figure out why I've gone nowhere, the answer would come up pretty fast. If ten doctors examined me, five of them would automatically say ADD. Just because. I mean, let's face it. Those offices they hang out in don't just pay for themselves. The prescription drug racket, or "industry", is like a gold mine where new gold forms itself about once every hour. A lame metaphor, but hopefully the point is illustrated. The other five would slap on my record a series of "disorders" with names so stupidly complicated only a pharmacist could make sense of it. So on a medical level, my problems do have answers, but they are expensive and soul-consuming, so I think I'll just stay broken.
And now we come back to the issue at hand. How does one discover purpose when his attention span doesn't allow this discovery to take place? Do I simply wait for this purpose to come ambling along, making use of ancient principles involving the manifestation of desires on a subconscious level? Do I pace around my room brainstorming until I force some great revelation into being? Do I make a formal appeal to the gods I don't even pay basic lip service to, in the hopes that my lackluster devotion will somehow arouse their attention? Do I keep running in this mindless rat race, performing menial tasks at a dead-end job I don't even have the energy to hate?
The stark facts are as follows: I'm 23 years old, I'm not doing anything with my life, and I'm absolutely terrified that this is only going to continue on a perpetual basis, the years grinding in some vacuum devoid of intelligent life until I'm too old and frail to continue fighting the good fight against all things bland, boring and normal.
Fear does some funny things to a man's mind, doesn't it?
The walls are in my head, the walls are in my room, the pale and sickly color of flesh consumed by malnutrition and rot. It's tiny, dark, and smells like sweat and smoke. The lighting is sharp and clinical, no room for shadows or secrets of any sort. I sleep on a cot, again resonating with the sensation of imprisonment. I sometimes catch myself dreaming of the soft bedding and warm sense of home that awaits me when I get out, only I was never in.
Everything about this feels temporary, except for the fact that it's been this way for a year at least. I can vaguely remember when I still told myself that things would change soon. Now that seems like the mindless chatter of a completely different person, one with hopes and dreams for a life that means more than this.
Perhaps this has been a long time coming. Perhaps the fact that I have gone the last five years without anything even resembling a purpose is starting to really wear down on my fragile self-esteem. Something like a hideous fear-of-failure complex overshadowing my every move and sucking away my will to act. This life has never been anyone else's but mine, but it seems like almost anything I've ever taken an interest in was someone else's obsession first. I just kind of hopped on the bandwagon because if they thought this thing (whatever it may have been) was so deadly wicked then there must be something to it.
But this is all speculation. One of the nice things about being a total head-case is never being afraid to admit a possible mistake. Quite the opposite, in fact. Over-analyzing my own mistakes and failures, and obsessing over things about which I can do nothing, has become a regular part of my day to day life.
Although, really? If one were to delve in a clinical fashion into my mind in an attempt to figure out why I've gone nowhere, the answer would come up pretty fast. If ten doctors examined me, five of them would automatically say ADD. Just because. I mean, let's face it. Those offices they hang out in don't just pay for themselves. The prescription drug racket, or "industry", is like a gold mine where new gold forms itself about once every hour. A lame metaphor, but hopefully the point is illustrated. The other five would slap on my record a series of "disorders" with names so stupidly complicated only a pharmacist could make sense of it. So on a medical level, my problems do have answers, but they are expensive and soul-consuming, so I think I'll just stay broken.
And now we come back to the issue at hand. How does one discover purpose when his attention span doesn't allow this discovery to take place? Do I simply wait for this purpose to come ambling along, making use of ancient principles involving the manifestation of desires on a subconscious level? Do I pace around my room brainstorming until I force some great revelation into being? Do I make a formal appeal to the gods I don't even pay basic lip service to, in the hopes that my lackluster devotion will somehow arouse their attention? Do I keep running in this mindless rat race, performing menial tasks at a dead-end job I don't even have the energy to hate?
The stark facts are as follows: I'm 23 years old, I'm not doing anything with my life, and I'm absolutely terrified that this is only going to continue on a perpetual basis, the years grinding in some vacuum devoid of intelligent life until I'm too old and frail to continue fighting the good fight against all things bland, boring and normal.
Fear does some funny things to a man's mind, doesn't it?
posted by Jimmy Crazypants and the Crackateers | 9:12 AM
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