I have a confession to make.
I’ve been in a slump. For how long is hard to tell. I could say weeks, or months. I could say years. Hell, if I worked hard enough at an explanation I’m sure I could argue it’s been going my entire life. It’s not an easy thing to admit, especially with how much effort goes into convincing the rest of the world of the complete opposite.
I had this whole bunch of nonsense written up what seems like ages ago. Preachy stuff, you know, trying to feign some sort of enlightened vision. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few good points. It just lacked its own essence in its own delivery. The words were alright by the usual standards. The problem is that they don’t live up to my standards.
So dig, I want to declare some sort of intention here. I won’t though, as that would just perpetuate the issue. No, instead there will be dissection, inflection, slight reflection, just a tad bit of analysis with little to no direction. Correction depends on pressing forward. Watch the ripples and the sort.
The echo of your life will bounce around in the caverns of others, just as other echoes exist in your own cave. Good, bad, indifferent or incomprehensible- those whom you meet and those who meet you create impacts in your timeline and each of us has our own way of valuing such things. Sometimes these values overlap but I’d wager that most don’t. If you have ever seen the ‘news’ in any medium, you know most of us don’t see eye to eye. Ipso facto- war, murder, rape, theft, racism, sexism, bullying, religion, nationalism and so on and so on. It seems as though the only thing that everyone can agree on is that there is something wrong. But even then, it’s still not really everyone.
However, this we already knew.
There has been discourse in all known human life. Perhaps it is only a set condition associated with mortality, or maybe not. Perhaps things are worse than they have ever been and they aim to keep getting worse. The impact we have on each other and the physical world around may actually be reaching its flash point. Or maybe not.
That doesn’t have too much to do with my slump, other than it existing in my head all of the time. The slump itself seems to be a demon of habit, lazy and rooted in a lack of confidence. Or something like that.
It may just be the time of the year. High holy days of materialism really get to me, especially when people viciously defend their destructive habits by loosely affiliating them with words of some bloke who was murdered a few hundred dozen years ago.
The irony is just too beautifully infuriating, considering what they gave that guy the chair for. Or whatever that times equivalent of the chair was. I just hope that this is just some big joke the rest of the species is playing on me.
But I know that it’s not the stupid holidays or the end of the year. It’s not my health or my job or my location, it’s just me. I read something a few days ago that said that the act of telling someone that you are doing something can often insight the same sort of psychological satisfaction as doing the professed deed. Not saying that it is the same thing, it’s just that you would feel as though it is. It feels good to promise something but actually taking on the task appears to be so much more effort.
I haven’t gotten to where I am in my life, wherever that might be, through promises. And even if that was what I thought at certain points in the past (or convince myself to think onward into the future) the promise never has the true impact.
I’ve had this twitch in my right eye for months now, and my back aches like I’ve spent years working in a coal mine. Or so I think. I don’t feel rested when I sleep and my dreams are vague horrors of no specific purpose and void of any meaning. And to top it off, I’ve cut my life short of so many of those vital outlets that kept the whole place from burning down. I’m wasting too much time.
My hiatus from writing may have been the most savage and malevolent thing I have ever done to myself, the effects of which reach out and infect almost every other part of my consciousness that I enjoy. The things I don’t like will magnify and march to the forefront of this mind trapped inside my skull and as a result, total production goes down in both quality and quantity.
But here I sit, a bad taste in my mouth from using the word production, and with no clear way out of such a slump. The only thing that offers itself up is time not obligated to any one or thing, and the supposedly uplifting symbolism of the end of one calendar year and the start of another. Other than that, it will still just be my self and my thoughts. The only reprieve will be from those means which I had made for myself and not yet destroyed, or seeking out new ones.
I would like very much for the answers to emerge after a few hundred words as they used to. Or at least seemed to do. But I am no longer that young, dressed head to toe in naivety, and can no longer be satisfied by the means of college aged millennials. At best, now I wear a very naive pair of socks and because of this, new ways must be forged. If the dreams I have continue to assault me with nonsensical symbolism, they shall be molded and sold with hand crafted meaning made from whatever was there.
Because, you see, after all of this time that I’ve been brooding over who gives a damn, the necessity of such slumps reveal themselves in murky clarity. Ups and downs exist for perspective, or at least they do to me. As a crafter of fictions both near and far, it is important to leech and reach for new depth both noble and superfluous. I am still young, but clearly no prodigy. I have been working at my few humble talents to make something else. There are those who don’t have to do that, and to them I say, how can thou be so boring?
Fresh from my slump, I know how to be boring and I know the illusion of joy that it seems to bring. But despite that, the fury has lived on inside and kept any true comfort wrapped in a healthy dose of paranoia. This, what seems to be insanity, is a very important step in finding the most pure and spectacular version of insanity. The one that fits just right on the first shot and has no need to be hemmed. I am an ape among apes armed only in the belief that this ape, that I call me, is somehow different from the rest of the apes, who all think of themselves as something special as well. The prodigies are already ahead, using up all their juice in the first lap. This ape, the one called me, is just getting ready for the long haul ahead. By the end, my feet may drip with blood. By the end, delirium may twist the everything, even down to the shapes and colors I once called normal. By the end, I may have gone completely off-the-deep-end, batshit bananas.
I just hope that will be the case because if the pop mentality becomes culture, we are all doomed. If me and those who wants something more don’t succeed, I’d rather die than accept my over priced shackles. I don’t even care if they’re designer.