The Failing Truth

What have I become? I find myself on the end of a spectrum that seems to grow more painfully obvious with every great debate or argument of my existence. This is a road that I’m strangely familiar with, the scenery too repetitive to not know where I am. I am at the place I started.
It’s weird to see years go by, to lose hair and gain it, to see myself in the mirror and find someone else staring back…an older me, a me that I didn’t imagine I’d ever be. We are what we accomplish, what we’ve done and where we’ve landed, and the footprints are too close together. There’s something wrong when the sum of a man is easier to produce through the accomplishments never achieved. When the world is blaring at a level so overwhelming that screams are muffled beneath it, because I’ve become the background noise, not even the star of my own personal Truman show.
I’ll admit it, I feel defeated. A plan not finished, a dream gone sour, a vision unfulfilled. After absorbing so many different stories, reading and watching the things that have become mainstream, verifying what the world wants and measuring it to the flooding thoughts and ideas that feel so abundant, I shudder at the idea that my thoughts are not good enough–like a sea of lost potential lapping at the edges of my consciousness begging to be made whole, to exist in more than just electrical synapses huddled in the far reaches of my mind. It wants to be poured out, these things need to slip loose from inside, like anything in this life when words are held in they only poison the holder.
I almost wish I could raise a kickstarter for my life, help me find my sanity, help a writer become what he claims to be…just pennies a day and you can give a Santi his dream back. It’s not too much of a stretch, I know stress can do funny things, maybe these ideas have finally hit their capacity. Maybe my head and heart have found a way to push me, that if I don’t pour some words on a page directly from my heart I’ll poison myself with their authenticity. It did feel good to type these words. Maybe after I work tomorrow I’ll find that line again, and something more than a rant will spill free.

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Mentally Choking

  So, a friend of mine stated to me that I needed to write.  Something I find myself unable to do.  I had a system, a way of creating, a formula that produced a product that I felt was extremely desirable.  But that system is offline.  My nightly habits of life are impossible, not if I want to earn actually funds to feed myself and to eventually move in with my girlfriend.  So instead I’ve been wallowing in my self depreciation, believing that the only true way to progress forward was to take two steps back…meaning, to quit my current job and return to my ungodly hours of writing.

  A quick side step from the topic, I wrote a book, this book is inadequate.  I honestly thought I was going to just become some sort of genius amateur writer, after closer examination I see my flaws.  I dissected my book, took the events and created a massive timeline which I coated my walls with.  Yes, there were bits and pieces that I found within it that felt like a gem or two, but digging for fragments doesn’t lead to a best seller(not that I know what does)but my guess is that I missed something along the way.  So day in and day out, I walk into my room and stare at it, then I go on with my day.  This several hundred page book swallowed my wall, and with each glance at it, I found myself choking.

  That’s when today took me by surprise, I guess I had one of those epiphany’s that people always speak about.  After complaining about my inability to write in my current way of life, my friend told me yesterday, “You gotta figure out how to work around it.  Gotta cut the world out when you can, then sneak back into reality for a bit.”  I put my whole story up, and in the face of those pages my inspiration seemed so meager, as if all the writing I could muster couldn’t scratch the surface.  Of course!  I couldn’t possible chew, let alone swallow such a massive undertaking.  The biggest endeavor I’ve tackled in my pursuit of writing was staring me in the face, all those hours of my life reduced to a timeline that made the paint on my wall disappear.  I took the steak that is my fantasy world and shoveled it into my mind, forcing it into my eyes day in and day out, every single piece.  My inner writer was turning blue in the face.  I’ve taken it down…stacked the pages, and now I’m prepared to put it aside for occasional viewing.

  So maybe I need to turn the table, sit someplace else while I digest.  I guess I’ll cut the world out and find a new way to create, separate myself from the formula that isn’t working.  To those reading this, I hope it’s helpful, if not please do laugh at my confusion.  Cause what’s the point in putting these words down if no one enjoys them.