I nearly passed out on the drive to work today. My body, which I believed to have adjusted fine to repetitive sleep deprivation, is rapidly rebelling against me. I stalk the hallways of my ship in a somnambulant haze, coherency gradually fading. I field requests to hangout with friends based on the level of inebriation we're likely to attain. The last few girls Ive met have been subpar at best, providing the requisite physical stimulation without satsifying my need for substantial, intellectually gratifying conversation one bit. Im at the point where Id forego a bottle of Jack Daniels Single Barrel for a night by myself in a hot bath with a pitcher of my Mother's homebrewed sun tea, and would eschew empty sex for just one date reminiscent of the excursions of my adolescence, the girl and I exploring each other's minds, hearts and souls, our faces flickering to life with youthful exuberance as we unearthed treasure after treasure the other person kept buried under the sand on the beaches of their spirit. But, neither of those seem to exist. Nothing filling and complete occupies this emotionally barren landscape. These women judge me on the size of my arms or the style of my hair rather then for the alacrity of my wit or the breadth of my vocabulary. Ive poured generosity down a bottomless pit, and been surprised when I recieved no love in return, merely scorn and anger for not providing more. Im no simp or mark to clarify, but when Im exclusive I treat my girl like a queen. However, recent evidence has shown me that Ive done right in dismantling the throne before my dignity is usurped by some enterprising little things feminine wiles. Besides, Im the rogue, not the prince. The ronin, not the knight.
I've always preferred solitude to the company of others the vast majority of the time. Unless those others are family or close friends, I care little for the company of others. This doesnt mean I live like a miser, pathetically enduring a hermetic existence and mislabeling it "life". I venture out daily. Im afflicted with an unending energy, a limitless source of fuel that demands nearly constant movement, physically and mentally. At parties Im the one talking to everybody, drawing groups together networking effortlessly. At bars, clubs and lounges, Im drawn to people like a moth to a flame, their stories brought to life by the passion and truth in their words. On the surface, Im very social, almost to the point of absurdity. But only when I want to be. The key difference is that, while Ive been called the life of the party and have many friends and acquaintances, there's a boundary between us, one Ive consciously erected. I love nothing more then to wake up on a Saturday morning, get in my car with no destination predetermined, and drive aimlessly until curiosity, boredom and providence co-mingle enough to halt me, beckoning me into some lost, unexplored little corner of the world. Ill enter stealthily and anonymously. Ill buy tea or beer, unsheath my phone from my pocket or free a book from my backpack, sit, and lose myself. I always set out with complete silence in mind, promising myself that this will be a date between me and literature. But, always unchanging, somebody stops and speaks to me, striking up a conversation. It may be a retired military Veteran who sees his son or a faint resemblance of his youth in me. It may be a girl with the fortitude to follow up her shy, interested glances with the courage to speak first, an invitation Ill follow up on 10/10 if she lacks the bravado, which I have to give unceasingly in spades. It may be a young man around my age, a little younger or a little older, who, like me, is drifting through life off the beaten path, clinging desperately to a dilapidated piece of wreckage, the fusilage of his former life or beliefs, trying to find his way home, not knowing that he has to not only let go of his makeshift life preserver, but kick it away forcefully with both feet, allowing the current to take him under. He wont drown, I know from experience, because I was him. Now I just need to take my own advice and pry these last few stubborn fingers off of this detritus keeping me afloat. Wish me luck, because either I go or we both capsize.
During moments of silence away from others, my mind is free. Im able to think clearly, my thoughts unencumbered by external, negative influences. Completely neutral, completely free, completely pure. I enjoy writing during these all too brief repreives, and often do my best work when my only company are the thoughts echoing through my head. The argument can be made that inspiration is birthed from the outside looking in, but I beg to differ immediately, allowing experience to shine through. My inspirational times and revolutionary epiphanies are the result of allowing my mind to flex and be fluid, welcoming in an idea, a theory, or an event, then synthesizing it into something uniquely my own. This is part of the magic of the craft of writing. You play God in a sense, determiming the story that is to be told and the medium through which it's communicated. Whether through the rational, comforting directness of prose or the abstract and imaginative fantasy of poetry, you become an artist of the highest caliber, using the simplest, most ancient of all tools, language, to birth beauty from seeming nothingness, obscuring the fact that the fruits of your labor come from your own mind. This is why writing is a drug to me, my calling and passion, as natural to me as breathing. Words are organic, yet in a changing world remain solid but not stagnant, unyielding but not unchanging, stoic but not rigid. They are my friends, I know them intimately, and I maintain my sanity with them. May we never leave each other.
I've always preferred solitude to the company of others the vast majority of the time. Unless those others are family or close friends, I care little for the company of others. This doesnt mean I live like a miser, pathetically enduring a hermetic existence and mislabeling it "life". I venture out daily. Im afflicted with an unending energy, a limitless source of fuel that demands nearly constant movement, physically and mentally. At parties Im the one talking to everybody, drawing groups together networking effortlessly. At bars, clubs and lounges, Im drawn to people like a moth to a flame, their stories brought to life by the passion and truth in their words. On the surface, Im very social, almost to the point of absurdity. But only when I want to be. The key difference is that, while Ive been called the life of the party and have many friends and acquaintances, there's a boundary between us, one Ive consciously erected. I love nothing more then to wake up on a Saturday morning, get in my car with no destination predetermined, and drive aimlessly until curiosity, boredom and providence co-mingle enough to halt me, beckoning me into some lost, unexplored little corner of the world. Ill enter stealthily and anonymously. Ill buy tea or beer, unsheath my phone from my pocket or free a book from my backpack, sit, and lose myself. I always set out with complete silence in mind, promising myself that this will be a date between me and literature. But, always unchanging, somebody stops and speaks to me, striking up a conversation. It may be a retired military Veteran who sees his son or a faint resemblance of his youth in me. It may be a girl with the fortitude to follow up her shy, interested glances with the courage to speak first, an invitation Ill follow up on 10/10 if she lacks the bravado, which I have to give unceasingly in spades. It may be a young man around my age, a little younger or a little older, who, like me, is drifting through life off the beaten path, clinging desperately to a dilapidated piece of wreckage, the fusilage of his former life or beliefs, trying to find his way home, not knowing that he has to not only let go of his makeshift life preserver, but kick it away forcefully with both feet, allowing the current to take him under. He wont drown, I know from experience, because I was him. Now I just need to take my own advice and pry these last few stubborn fingers off of this detritus keeping me afloat. Wish me luck, because either I go or we both capsize.
During moments of silence away from others, my mind is free. Im able to think clearly, my thoughts unencumbered by external, negative influences. Completely neutral, completely free, completely pure. I enjoy writing during these all too brief repreives, and often do my best work when my only company are the thoughts echoing through my head. The argument can be made that inspiration is birthed from the outside looking in, but I beg to differ immediately, allowing experience to shine through. My inspirational times and revolutionary epiphanies are the result of allowing my mind to flex and be fluid, welcoming in an idea, a theory, or an event, then synthesizing it into something uniquely my own. This is part of the magic of the craft of writing. You play God in a sense, determiming the story that is to be told and the medium through which it's communicated. Whether through the rational, comforting directness of prose or the abstract and imaginative fantasy of poetry, you become an artist of the highest caliber, using the simplest, most ancient of all tools, language, to birth beauty from seeming nothingness, obscuring the fact that the fruits of your labor come from your own mind. This is why writing is a drug to me, my calling and passion, as natural to me as breathing. Words are organic, yet in a changing world remain solid but not stagnant, unyielding but not unchanging, stoic but not rigid. They are my friends, I know them intimately, and I maintain my sanity with them. May we never leave each other.