Type until your fingers bleed.
I convince myself that I’m not wasting my talents. That typing on Facebook or texting my friends is the same thing as “writing” because it’s easier than facing the fact that I’ve spent ten years wanting to do something that I’ve spent ten years avoiding doing. Obviously this is weapons-grade bullshit.
When you’re doing stretch drills in gym class and you have to split your left and right leg out as far as you can until it hurts. Until your whole core strains and quivers with tension. That’s the difference between who you are and who you want to be. Tension. Tension is the only word I can find for what it is. Life is Stretch-Armstrong corn syrup tension between these opposites.
Tonight I was at a constant pull between what I think is right, and what I want. A lot of that comes down to the stuff I put in my stomach. I have a tendency to binge drink, but I also justify it to myself as being “better than psychoactives” or “better than SSRI’s” or “better than self-harming” or anything else that has ever replaced whiskey and Spirograph designs of self-doubt that leave me awake 36+ hours straight rotating rubix cubes in my brain or interlocking tetrominos (double-word score for tetrominos)
That hamstring-muscle tingley tension flies up when I try to write something like this. When I try to write something that isn’t camouflaged beneath layers of metaphor, irony, post-modern self-referential other-hyphenated-buzzword-flashy-literature-bullshit and basically verbal memes that let me say what I say without saying that I was saying what I’m saying so if anyone asked what I was saying I could say “jus’ sayin’”
I don’t fuck with “trolling” and “bait” and, as much as I love Killa Cam more than any human who doesn’t intercourse with him should, I don’t fuck with “u mad?” either. When did caring become failure? What happened where the only way to lose an argument was to give a single fuck about what you’re talking about?
It should not be good enough to me to be “better than” but again that muscle tension comes in. The moments where I want to “make my life better” are so directionless. Guided by societal pressures and what my friends and family have accomplished and where someone my age is “supposed” to be that I lose myself in the creases of the treasure map. That I strap up ropes and shovels and ride camel-back through the desert to an X-marks-the-spot and uncover a chest full of I don’t give a fucks. That I maybe should have never been the treasure hunter in the first place. That I should probably be the cartographer.
Cartographer rhymes with heart monitor. #ButImNotARapper
The weird thing is I’m almost 500 words in and I really still haven’t said anything. Humans are unique in our universality. Everyone feels loneliness. But no one feels *my* loneliness. If we did then we wouldn’t be lonely anymore. Hunger. Pain. Longing. I’m writing this while I discuss the concept of love with my friend who is in a pain that I might never feel. But I’ve felt pain just as poignant. But not the same pain. That which connects us divides us, but that which divides us connects us. I have as little advice to offer her as I have to offer myself. Maybe even less.
If I type until my fingers bleed, how many keystrokes will be the backspace button?
How often do you correct yourself? How many times do you stifle your voice or shut down yourself in the average day?
Talking feels impossible. I do it every day of my life but every time it feels impossible, like I was looking at an 18-wheeler stuck in the snow and I have to push it out myself. Like I was climbing cliff faces with bloody fingertips with rock-walls slick with sleet and somehow I do it. But somehow the next rock wall and the next 18-wheeler gets no easier. The thing is there are people who can cakewalk through my minefields. Most of my friends can cakewalk my minefields. This feels connected though. I was explaining the word parallax to my friend tonight. The angle changes the image. God-mode cheat code is controlling your own angle. My ultimate goal is controlling my angle.
I don’t even know if this is finished or not.