Bobing for Existence or Pin the Tail on Your Purpose

Fickle. Fickle, fickle humans. Restless and rather stupid. Sometime a simple slap would be a good idea or simply sufficient to shake one out of ones race for completion.

I aspire. It is my strength and my weakness. Because I aspire, because I have passion - a human condition one day, an affliction the next - I evolve, I blossom, and I stink at life.

I have ups and downs that range so radically some days that I long for the day I can flat line. How peaceful that would be. How wonderfully restful.

So what is it? What is this drive for completion? This thirst, this unquenchable thirst. Why can't I just be? Why am I not content?

Will I ever be truly content?

In the Middle

We're moving. Next weekend, we move into our new house. It's bigger, it's nicer, and I pray everyday that it will give us just the right amount of space. Not too much, not too little.

But that is next week. Today, we live like gypsy heathens. My animals eat from empty plates on the coffee table because I have given up trying to keep things clean. My floor is covered in boxes, clumps of dog hair, dirt, and cedar tree bits, and it makes me feel... dispassionate.

Soon, I will move this mess of belongings to a new house that feels void of connection yet has the expectation of home and perfection thrust upon it. It's a tall order that this house will take months to fulfil. Until it does, I will be in the middle of - in between - two homes. I will be without the place where I belong.

It reminds me of when I moved from my marriage to that other home. I remember how it seemed like the connection would never be made; that even though all my belongings where there, I was in a stranger's house. It was lonely.

I thought then that it was because my husband wasn't there, but now I wonder if it will be the same, only we'll be alone together this time.

I make it sound melancholy and  I don't really mean to. It's just something that appears to be there and for that reason alone, I must poke it for more information.

ugh.

It's just that... maybe I also don't want to live this way. Of course, you'll know, I'm talking about work now and not houses. This is, perhaps, the other swollen object in my gut that requires poking.

I'm exhausted. I'm too old for this shit,  this shit of having to put so much of my time to something that bleeds creativity from me. I just want to do it part time - for fuck sakes. It's so demanding.

I'm not sure if I took a wrong turn leaving my last part time job. Then, working from home seemed appealing, and it is cool, but also not cool. And why is it that this job always seems to pulling from me more than it gives?

The manifestation is balance, joy, and contentment (the last two might be one in the same), and I'm not there yet. I find this current job kinda pisses me off. It's great, the people are great, the product is great, the work is demanding - too demanding, at times, in it's relentlessness.

I just need a job that I come to that feels kind and pleasant and where I feel of value and my mind is engaged. A job that fills me up with as much as I put in and leaves me enough time to foster writing and projects. Perhaps I had that before - the money was just a little shy.

So, I tweak the manifestation: balance, joy, financial abundance. I will look to where I want to go. I will focus.

It's good to have goals.

Oh dear god...

I only title this like that because I'm looking for a flare of dramatics over nothing, because isn't it all that? There's nothing wrong, but still, "Oh... dear god" here we go again, she's going to write about nothing as if it were...what?

Beautiful Pieces

I finished a book yesterday, The Storied Life of A.J.Filkry, and it wasn't what I expected. It was shit really. Too simple. But it was really well thought out and well written shit, and only shit because I think the author's ideas are a little before her time still. Tbh, by her picture on the cover I thought she was about 22, I just looked her up and she's 7 years younger than me. Ha ha. 

Still, it was simple. Too simple. 

I don't want that to happen to me. I don't want to think I'm communicating something really super deep in a way that sneaks up on the reader only to find that I was actually too inexperienced of a writer (too inexperienced as a person) to do this, and I laid.it.all.out for them as if I was teaching a kindergarten class. 

That would suck. 

I go inside my swirling guts and ask myself some hard questions like, what are you doing?

I hear, one step at a time, man; to which, fair enough. I guess. 

I see these pieces, the beautiful pieces of the-reality-of-being-human floating about. I smile and then I frown and then I smile. I can't decide if I love the simplicity of blundering or if I hate it. Which, in and of itself is interesting.

I am that guy standing at the street light, on foggy, misty night,  waiting for my mysterious self to deliver a message. While I wait, I just sit back and watch the world.

In the distance, a fog horn sounds unexpectedly and I jump. It takes away from my attempt at a cool demeanour.

Nevertheless, one must expel these spiders of thought, these niggling creatures that crawl in my brain as if they belong there. They are like fruit flies in that they don't have to come from somewhere else, the can just grow where once there was none. 

Also like fruit flies, I can coax them into drowning by laying out the sweet smell apple cider vinegar, the invitation to hedonism, and spill them from my finger tips to their death.

The spiders, the dude me at the street light, the judgy-reader, the wannabe writer, they are all beautiful pieces and when I'm right (as in righted) I can accept them with grace (like a mother lovingly watching her bratty kids fight). 

When I'm uncomfortable, it is because I've become one of them, slipped into their skin when I wasn't looking, in an attempt to feel... what? Young again?

I don't know. And now that I've written it all out, I don't care.

Christmas Morning

I'm smoking again, just a little bit. Two a day, to be exact. Smoking always leads me here - unsettled as it were. The great divide of cognitive dissonance. To which I think, meh. How wonderfully human of me.

The great divide leads me to writing my soul, laying it down one letter at a time in hopes of piecing together a puzzle, but I'm trying to put together two puzzles that refuse to merge. One of g.o.d and one of... I don't know: a poor use of my time?

I will stop again - unsuccessful at having a habit of ill repute.

I wonder if Christmas is as gnawing when I don't smoke, as hard on the heart in all it's expectations of love, family, and perfection?  I strive for what I have right in front me. It's so painfully awkward and uphill.

I watched a video today about stress, about looking at stress differently, that it's the body's way of giving you the adrenaline and oxygen you need at a stressful time, it's not a bad thing. But how does that work into anxiety - the constant state of the fear of nothing. The state of your inner peace saying, "Hey, dude... you're not practicing me..."

"Fuck off," I say, but it never does.

It just parks its ass and says, "Whatever, you'll be back" as if mocking me.

It's Christmas morning. The family is just starting to wake up. At fourty-something, I am still the first awake on Christmas morning. But I'm the first awake every morning, so, really, it's just another day.

Cheers.

Heart Kisses

God's kissing my neck again. He's so sweet. His  thumb on my bottom lip while he looks me in the eye. What a guy.

It's hard to not want more.

Running in My Own Shit

Writing a post means that I am not currently playing the "I killed myself" game and have chosen the other fun pastime of running in my own shit. It's somewhat like running in sand and is different only because it is NOT a good workout and you literally go nowhere. I like my use of literally there - as if anyone would literally run in their own shit to begin with, let alone discover they didn't get anywhere.

I should be pretending to be dead because my present engagement with life is rather weird in a "that's stupid" kind of way. I'm wanting to satisfy an itch? Or I can feel the beginning of something good on the horizon? Or I've imagined myself into a tizzy of possibility that never actually existed?

I'm not sure but I think it's one of those, perhaps the latter. I am an epiphany about to blossom. It's like chasing an orgasm -  exhausting.

I'm sad for some reason, as if I missed an opportunity... like I fucked myself over by not writing, sculpting, or other. I'm quietly kicking myself in the ass, no... wait, that's too kind:  beating the shit out of myself and loving it.

Fuck, I don't know. Time to get up and die - again.

How Would I Handle This if I Was Dead?

So maybe it wasn't the smoking or maybe it hasn't been long enough as I am still feeling a little less than stellar.

I had a thought as I was watching "The Final 24 - Hunter S. Thompson." I'm not really a fan of his writing, he lives far too close to the edge for my liking and never really made much sense to me. However, he was a writer and I am interested in all writers. Not only did he die, but he committed suicide. As I watched and listened, I found was somewhat pleased with his decision to end his life.

From what I gathered, Hunter didn't expect (or want) to live long and often talked about killing himself if nature didn't do it for him first. Try as he might with the booze and drugs, he was still here at sixty-something. So, having enough of that, he left - as planned.

I imagine his pain and suffering was not unlike the rest of ours, we all handle it differently, and I applaud him for stopping and getting off when he wanted to. I don't see any problem with it, not in his case anyways. I think he hung around long enough. At different levels of failure, I'm sure he tried to fix shit at different points in his life.

When the documentary was over, it made me sigh with the thought, "Wouldn't that be nice, to take one step and be away from this beast we call society? How lovely. "

I would be far away from all the fake shit that rubs my skin raw. All those other people and their personalities and opinions that I can't un-hear; they're like swimming in a ocean of stinging jellyfish, every word, every look, a jab, a sting. All of them yelling their pain and me feeling somewhat the sponge.

Wouldn't it be nice to be away from all of that? It would be like moving to the country after years of living by the highway. Quiet.

I took comfort at the thought and then, after some time, shrugged my shoulders because Hunter's option is not mine.

But, I thought, what if I just pretended in my own head to off myself? What if I pretended that I couldn't take the noise of this world so much that I just turned it off by way of death. I would be removed from society. That would mean that I could just live my life and nobody would see me. I could do things that I enjoy and not worry if the product was rated as good or poor, if I was pretty or ugly, or too pretty or too ugly. Too stupid or too arrogant. Too loud, too quiet. Too perfect or a disgusting mess.  I could do and be them all and just let them be. It wouldn't matter if I was good enough or not, because I wouldn't really be here.

I would like to do this. I would like to kill myself so that I may live in peace. It will be tough, though. It will change the way I go about everything.I'll have to remember that dead people don't have earthly opinions, and whenever something happens that stings (real or imaginary) I will have to ask myself, "how would I handle this if I was dead?"

Nothing is everything.