There’s Revolution in the Air

It was never supposed to be this way.

But then, I have been neither eloquent, nor succinct enough, to ever realistically expect anything different. I have instead reached teasingly for lyrical cadences carefully measured to hide behind and designed to build the rhythm to pull out the emotions in a crowd of hesitant confusion, like ripping a festering splinter from an overworked intellect quickly crumbling.

I have fought exhaustingly the blankness of the page, mirroring back the blankness of my soul, desperate to write into creation the successful life I was discouragingly unable to find in the outside world, just so that I would have something that I could actually call my own.  Even if it was only for just a few pages more.

I have run indiscriminately through the tricky escape of nearly every available chemical, seeking a simple moment to both catch myself from falling too far, too fast, and to feel something, even though that temporary connection fades far too fast to ever be fully restorative because no matter the dosage, it is still just stealing happiness from tomorrow.

And my account is tragically overdrawn.

I have navigated the harsh seas of justified stormy discontent, an emotionally untrained captain lost in a blindingly unexpected squall, struggling to keep it all afloat in the midst of increasingly gloomy weather that constantly threatened to crash over the weakened bow of my better intentions.

I have successfully built previous lives of perceived safety and stability, only to burn them right the fuck back down again, simply because I found the comfortable to be boring and somehow unpleasantly stuck in distasteful predictability.  Creating the mundane only taught me to abhor the cliche and left me yearning desperately for a more challenging instability that would force me to keep my wits sharp and my future tantalisingly uncertain.

Because at least that was interesting.  And I always seemed to function the best when running blindly in the shadows of chaos.

I have fought ignobly through many confrontational and overwhelming campaigns of misunderstood romance, doomed to spectacular failure from the very start, but still I chose to take the field.  Because though the odds were always stacked so heavily against me, and the chances of actually achieving a durable success were regrettably slim and fleeting, a man still has to rise up at some point to make his stand.

And I made mine, constantly and foolishly.

Because I consistently stood up for all the wrong people, and at all the wrong times, until ultimately that field of my visible dishonor was somehow transformed quickly into the resting ground of my amorous burial.

I have grown to hate these bleating and temporary words that I write, these bastardized children of my own creation that constantly box me into the corner of those cliches that I hate.  Far too often they feel like apologies for my many miscalculated mistakes, though I am never quite certain to whom those apologies are actually directed and I often wonder if I am just screaming out into the readerless void, pointlessly.

I constantly write them down anyway because I cannot comprehend how to be anything different at this point.  I just keep screaming away in the pitiful landscape of my deserved repercussions, hoping like hell that one day someone will actually care enough to hear the call.

But most days, and nearly every night, it is just the horrid sound of my own voice echoing back to me as I live out my sentence of a confinement destined to be forever solitary.  No visits, conjugal or otherwise, ever break the monotony and this cell in which I spend the endless hours pacing grows smaller and more claustrophobic with every sinking of the sun.

I am slowly making peace with the confines of my own insignificance.  The foolish notions of continuing the pursuit of a dying art successfully are beginning to evaporate.  The drive to be anything other than the starving artist cliche is running desperately low on determination and what little energy I do have often gets misdirected into other, more inconsequential considerations, simply for the sake of just barely getting by.

The words that once gave me life and purpose are now intent on killing me, slowly and in measured paragraphs of scathing, self-exploitative retribution.  That is the price paid for carving out bits of a soul, just to feed the typewriter machine over the course of too many inconsistent years.  Eventually, you run out of expendable flesh and you are left with no choice but to cut deeper in order to find more viable tissue.  And that sacrifice can turn deadly in the blink of a page, before the story is even finished.

So there is no other option but to turn my typewriter towards the last remaining promise of a new direction.  Most likely, and with a bit of luck, I’ll end up in a quiet little place down Yucatan way, where I can finally take the time to just breathe and figure out that next part of the story detailing my fragile humanity.

Because I’m just so fucking tired of writing the same shit, post after post. It has gotten terrifyingly predictable and pedestrian and I am exhausted from constantly churning that cookie-cutter mill of mediocrity.

I know there are happy endings yet to be discovered.  There are new, ridiculous adventures yet to be experienced and I want to jump into each one with careless abandon, like I did all though the hazy glory days of a misspent youth.  There are new hearts to know, and new hands yet to hold, and I’m starving for the sustenance of that touch.

It finally occurred to me, languishing here in the final months spent living in this moldering City of Wayne, that I would much rather spend what days I might have left trying my best to simply be decent in an indecent world.

And I just cannot do that in my current situation, surrounded as I am by old sins and suffocatingly stale expectations.

There is honestly nothing left for me here but a small town early grave, unmarked and unvisited.  And I deserve something better than that.

So I have to get out, quick, before it all comes tumbling down.

There is a revolution coming. And that uprising is going to start with me…

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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