What do you do if you know there's a book within you but you can't reach it?
Where do you go if you just can't feel it?
I have visited this part of my existence for more times than I care to remember or go through again. It is a hollow place where only darkness resides, mockingly jibing me in the dark shadows of the corners of my mind.
If I feel anything at all, lately, I feel empty. And self hate and, self loathing.
And, very much like a failure.
I just don't know where to go on from here, with my so called writing, my dream of being an artist, my fantasy of having a life of my own and completing my goal of having a creative life?
I just don't know where to go from here...
I failed at taking a shift at work today because I was so extremely tired, so tired in fact that I didn't remember even saying no.
After I woke up-much later- all I could think of was that, no other successful person would have said no. They would have found the strength to go to work and do a full shift. This is going to bring me down at work and it is all I can do to not break out of my house and run to nearest place that sells liquor/store.
I want to be better than this but, at my age, I'm ashamed to say that I don't know how...
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
What Do You Think of Your accomplishments?
So far in my life the only things I've succeeded in doing is pinning, liking, and commenting. Theses are my most successful attributes to date.
Woe be to me....
Sorry, I'm having that kind of day, a day where all I've done/nothing but is take stock of my accomplishments and compare them to my failures, only to find that my failures significantly out number any accomplishments that I've ever tried to , well, accomplish. Leaving me to wonder where has my life been, where is my life going? Is it too late to even attempt an endeavour/a go at a life? What have I been doing all this time. Looking back all I see is a vast waste land of...wastefulness. You wouldn't think that a life full of doing nothing would leave such a mess and/trail of debris in it's wake...but it did. An enormous quantity of useless knowledge, inarticulate comments, foolish answers, and times too many to count of me just being a fool and just plain acting 'too cool of school'.
And, look where that's got me.
Sometimes it feels like I've got one life to live and I'm spending it living a life that some else wanted for me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly grateful for the job that I have and am willong to stick it out with it but, my heart and passion is not where this job lies.
Speaking of passion...
...I haven't been able to feel any in the last few years.
Not for art, not for reading, and most definitely, not for life.
...Now, where does that leave me? What doe you do when you don't have any passion for anything anymore?
What happens if you don't have any hope anymore?
Speaking of hope...
...I don't have that, either.
...For anything.
And, I'm stumped as to where I have to go to get it.
Some days, I fear where this leaves me. With no option left, what is one to do?
And, how is one to go about doing it?
Most days I have trouble feeling good about myself. I waft from (between) self loathing to down right despair and all out hatred of/for myself. It's an awful job, as well as a full time job just to keep my head above water and find a good reason to like myself. I do this, go through this, on a daily basis. It's exhausting.
Some days I wonder how I find the will to get up in the morning.
Today...I'm having one of those days.
I'm finding it hard to breath, my chest feels like it has sucked up a ton of diesel fuel, black tar like substances that is now clogging up my airways, trying to choke what little life I may have left out of me.
Will it win?
...today, I don't know.
All of this morbid/maudlin thinking stems from the fact that I have achieved exactly nothing in my long, yet short life on this earth. I am forty-one years old, soon to be forty-two and I can count on one hand all of the things that I'm proud of doing, all of the things that I've actually accomplished, things that would make anyone proud, like in a job-like aspect, or a career-like function. In that respect I have accomplished exactly nothing.
Deep within this thinking, I feel, is the need, my need for others approval. Why this is so important to me I don't know. Or, am not quite ready to talk about yet...
I was raised under the cloak of negativity in my house, and around my people.
What I picked up from my loved ones was:
-Looking pretty is very important, as is being thin.
-nothing good ever happens.
-Always expect the worse, for it will always show up.
-There is no hope. Ever.
-Don't defend yourself, call someone else to do it for you. (This soon changed and morphed into me not knowing how to defend myself at all, in any situation. Which is probably why I feel like such a push over (sometimes I fell like this may not be entirely true...) sometimes).
Maybe, it's all a matter of perception. Maybe I didn't get the whole picture and am just picking and choosing the parts that I feel best puts me in a darker light or, may justify my means?
I hope not. I hope that I have at least some clarity in this area...
I also feel like I have family pressures on me but, again, is it perceived pressure or real pressure?
Woe be to me....
Sorry, I'm having that kind of day, a day where all I've done/nothing but is take stock of my accomplishments and compare them to my failures, only to find that my failures significantly out number any accomplishments that I've ever tried to , well, accomplish. Leaving me to wonder where has my life been, where is my life going? Is it too late to even attempt an endeavour/a go at a life? What have I been doing all this time. Looking back all I see is a vast waste land of...wastefulness. You wouldn't think that a life full of doing nothing would leave such a mess and/trail of debris in it's wake...but it did. An enormous quantity of useless knowledge, inarticulate comments, foolish answers, and times too many to count of me just being a fool and just plain acting 'too cool of school'.
And, look where that's got me.
Sometimes it feels like I've got one life to live and I'm spending it living a life that some else wanted for me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly grateful for the job that I have and am willong to stick it out with it but, my heart and passion is not where this job lies.
Speaking of passion...
...I haven't been able to feel any in the last few years.
Not for art, not for reading, and most definitely, not for life.
...Now, where does that leave me? What doe you do when you don't have any passion for anything anymore?
What happens if you don't have any hope anymore?
Speaking of hope...
...I don't have that, either.
...For anything.
And, I'm stumped as to where I have to go to get it.
Some days, I fear where this leaves me. With no option left, what is one to do?
And, how is one to go about doing it?
Most days I have trouble feeling good about myself. I waft from (between) self loathing to down right despair and all out hatred of/for myself. It's an awful job, as well as a full time job just to keep my head above water and find a good reason to like myself. I do this, go through this, on a daily basis. It's exhausting.
Some days I wonder how I find the will to get up in the morning.
Today...I'm having one of those days.
I'm finding it hard to breath, my chest feels like it has sucked up a ton of diesel fuel, black tar like substances that is now clogging up my airways, trying to choke what little life I may have left out of me.
Will it win?
...today, I don't know.
All of this morbid/maudlin thinking stems from the fact that I have achieved exactly nothing in my long, yet short life on this earth. I am forty-one years old, soon to be forty-two and I can count on one hand all of the things that I'm proud of doing, all of the things that I've actually accomplished, things that would make anyone proud, like in a job-like aspect, or a career-like function. In that respect I have accomplished exactly nothing.
Deep within this thinking, I feel, is the need, my need for others approval. Why this is so important to me I don't know. Or, am not quite ready to talk about yet...
I was raised under the cloak of negativity in my house, and around my people.
What I picked up from my loved ones was:
-Looking pretty is very important, as is being thin.
-nothing good ever happens.
-Always expect the worse, for it will always show up.
-There is no hope. Ever.
-Don't defend yourself, call someone else to do it for you. (This soon changed and morphed into me not knowing how to defend myself at all, in any situation. Which is probably why I feel like such a push over (sometimes I fell like this may not be entirely true...) sometimes).
Maybe, it's all a matter of perception. Maybe I didn't get the whole picture and am just picking and choosing the parts that I feel best puts me in a darker light or, may justify my means?
I hope not. I hope that I have at least some clarity in this area...
I also feel like I have family pressures on me but, again, is it perceived pressure or real pressure?
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
What do you love? - #1
It's taken me a great many years- probably, way too many- to tap into that feeling but, when i do I feel very deeply abut art, the very act of creating something out of the ether and making it or causing it to be my own, that is exhilarating, stimulating, even.
It's one of the few things in my world, this world that actually takes my breath away.
I mean, I can actually become breathless from the act itself-
Oh! And don't even get me started on conversing about art- specifically describing a particular painting that I may be looking at: here I get incredibly winded to the point of very nearly, needing oxygen.
Sometimes I think my chest can't take the excitement of what I'm looking at or being/standing near.
It can all be really overwhelming at time...
I consider art my river of life.
Like when you go swimming and, the water is everywhere, all around you, it gets up in your nose, it gets in your mouth, it even gets into you eyes, It's everywhere. It supports you, carries you for however long you want to be immersed in it's belly, it comforts you and gives you life.
This is what art is for me.
Life.
Without it, I am dead.
The other thing I love is the word.
Written or otherwise, I'll take them however I can get them.
I particularly love the ones put down into books.
Books.
They are some magical entity that opened me up to this world.
And, I hate to be a stone cold snob about this but, I mean books, not the other-worldly i-readers that have infiltrated my existence and curdled up my precious realm of the physical book in hand, the actual, tactile experience of reading a tome with ones eyes and skin.
Not these evil invaders for me.
I will always love the experience of reading a physical book, feeling it's binding, whether old and frayed or new and fresh, the feel of it's pages, the smell of it's history emanating from each finger pressed/greased page.
I love to hear words. I love the art/act of conversation. Sometimes I feel that there are so many words left unsaid in this world and that they will never be said, that I feel for them, that they should not have a place at our conversational table, that they may not, nor ever be heard.
For this my heart and soul weeps.
It's one of the few things in my world, this world that actually takes my breath away.
I mean, I can actually become breathless from the act itself-
Oh! And don't even get me started on conversing about art- specifically describing a particular painting that I may be looking at: here I get incredibly winded to the point of very nearly, needing oxygen.
Sometimes I think my chest can't take the excitement of what I'm looking at or being/standing near.
It can all be really overwhelming at time...
I consider art my river of life.
Like when you go swimming and, the water is everywhere, all around you, it gets up in your nose, it gets in your mouth, it even gets into you eyes, It's everywhere. It supports you, carries you for however long you want to be immersed in it's belly, it comforts you and gives you life.
This is what art is for me.
Life.
Without it, I am dead.
The other thing I love is the word.
Written or otherwise, I'll take them however I can get them.
I particularly love the ones put down into books.
Books.
They are some magical entity that opened me up to this world.
And, I hate to be a stone cold snob about this but, I mean books, not the other-worldly i-readers that have infiltrated my existence and curdled up my precious realm of the physical book in hand, the actual, tactile experience of reading a tome with ones eyes and skin.
Not these evil invaders for me.
I will always love the experience of reading a physical book, feeling it's binding, whether old and frayed or new and fresh, the feel of it's pages, the smell of it's history emanating from each finger pressed/greased page.
I love to hear words. I love the art/act of conversation. Sometimes I feel that there are so many words left unsaid in this world and that they will never be said, that I feel for them, that they should not have a place at our conversational table, that they may not, nor ever be heard.
For this my heart and soul weeps.
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