Fights

Have you ever been in a fight?

I have, a few times, and while most of them were over quickly, they're not experiences that I go out of my way to have. But now I feel like I'm stuck in one. Not with a person, but with reality. Reality has a fucker of a boot stomping on my knee and is thoroughly enjoying the feeling of my jawbone cracking as it slams my head against the pavement.

Maybe that's a little extreme.

I'm in a state of flux. I'm planning a return to school. I have no idea what my career path looks like, and more and more it's deepening into a turbulent, hideous spiral. I say science like that covers everything and I look around, eager to barnacle myself to the first person who offers me a concrete way. Never mind that most people would scrape me off, worried such a pustule would carry them downward with it.

So I sit back and I write. I put beautiful words or angry ones or simple, straightforward tone deaf ones out there. I work minimum wage jobs and I come home and I draw and paint or pick through a journal with increasingly short and colorless postings. And when no one pauses, picks up my perfect, lucid sentences, I just go back to disjointed dementia.

What do I do? I love writing, I love art, and I love science. I love the world around me. But every time I turn around, I feel like something is stopping me. And I'm noticing who's fault it is.

It's my own.

I can't blame it on the politicians. They'll fuck up and blow hot air up our asses whether I read it or not. I can't blame it on beautiful women, the internet, video games, comic books, or stupid cartoons with the same deadened fart jokes. It's my fault. I have to accept this.

And fuck, I need to do something about it.

This post has been brought to you by exhaustion, caffeine and reading too much Transmetropolitan this week.

We call that irony kids.

I'll see you tomorrow with a fresh outlook.