There is a certain stagnation that results from living with the constant burden of unpredictability, caught inexplicably immobile as the first hesitant sparks of an upcoming war that threatens to be anything but civil rain down upon the desiccated tinder of everyone’s day to day good intentions, just waiting for the right mistake to catch and take hold.
An accompanying exhaustion, crippling and numb, often robs the restful sleep so desperately needed and replaces it instead with the regret-filled void of decade’s old sin. It is a wickedly infectious insomnia, red and raw, twirling around a ticking clock whose only remaining function is to lie convincingly about the time.
And all I can do is simply lay there in silent subjugation, night after sweat-soaked night, watching that clock spin in a paralytic, white-knuckled onslaught of projected indifferences and fear.
The essential self, lacking stable balance and fuzzing perpetually out of focus, surrenders to an ego dripping a confidence born of false witness. The Id predictably bleeds itself out indiscriminately across the minefield path of indecisively intentional misdirections and confusion.
Part-time compliments garnered from media platforms so socially inhospitable and temporary never seem to last very long. They are seldom found to be either durable, or sustainable. More often than not, they leave me just as hungry as I was before I was force-fed those well-intentioned compliments, leaving me to choke and gag on the distastefulness of their reach.
That positive reinforcement isn’t nearly powerful enough to keep the unstable fortress of my artistic compulsions from crumbling down under the weight of more boilerplate rejections hitting me hard in an obtuse onslaught of documented disapproval.
And that digital disconnect leaves me unguardedly incomplete and unsettled.
All I have ever wanted to be was a writer. From early in my thirteenth year I felt the unique pull and challenge offered by the blank page and I just *knew* that I was destined to answer that call of a fickle muse, yammering out in its infancy as I picked up a creative gauntlet universally thrown down.
But I had to live first before ever finding the words of my voice. I had to live and hurt and lie and fear and fuck. My heart had to break; I had to break the heart of others, often without malicious intent, but I broke them all the same.
In the end, that artistic pursuit led me to this solitary life of bleeding words out from the wounds of my combined experiences for the enjoyment of friendly strangers.
That isolated stagnation helped me to better understand that when circumstances competently conspire, I am able to objectively make the words I write on the page sing. I can make them stick and fester inside your head. Or break your fucking heart until the tears finally flow free. With a simple twist of the narrative I can nudge someone into an embarrassed laughter. Or turn on the secrets of a hidden arousal with a blushingly direct and intentional dangling of my tumescent participle.
I nightly sell my soul by the page for the amusement of faceless spectators. I carve out easily digestible bites of my being in an ever-expanding and meaningless word count to help sustain an audience starving for the measure of some meaningful experience. I sacrifice myself completely on the altar of a not often understood art, firm in my naive belief that honest words still truly matter in this narcissistic world so consumed with vapid, putrescent whims of temporary fancy.
And, I am okay making those sacrifices while simultaneously forging the insignificance of my legacy.
I just wish it paid a little bit better. Because the hours really fucking suck.