I get that "pointing finger" feeling. When everything collapses I want to blame the world. But there is no blame. There is no world. Only me. I am the beginning and ending result of my own creation. I have my fathers genes, but not his blood - not any more, at least. I have my Mothers lessons, good and bad. I have all of these things, these tools. And I use them for what? To live? To survive? To get through another day? I have a dark mind. Painful thoughts linger.. This is experience. But, it is young. It has the potential, just as I do, to grow. Become something greater than, even if it is in a small way. Like Bill Withers said... you have to get used to OK, because sometimes that's as far as you'll make it. I'm getting used to OK. I'm getting used to not pursuing. And it's hard. It's hard to have no direction. It's hard to live like a drone. But, this could be what I was made for. Not for anything special.. not to astound the world with what I can do, but to be apart of the world and drone along with it. To do drugs and drink and fight and brawl. To be selfish and ignorant and nonchalant. But, also to love and give and be caring and compassionate. To make greater mistakes and distances. To stoop so low that I don't recognize even myself. And then to emerge in some yellow light as some victorious hero. A hero of my own fashion. I don't want to be my own enemy. And that, I have. My only competition is me. The only one that knows every one of my weaknesses is me. Sure, I have friends, enemies in disguise, suitors, tailors, lovers, and foes. And I know them just as they know me. We are surfaced. Shallow, individuals. We want it to be pretty. I want to live an ugly life. A gritty, modern pirate, sort of life. I want to work on some huge machine with a hundred other men and live the life of true hard work. I want to pay homage to those who work so hard before me and for me. I don't want to live in the plastic society. I want to scrape the bottom with fellows that know that empty feeling, that hole that lingers in your chest when something great has been lost. My broken spirit wants to mingle with other broken spirits. Spirits that have healed and grew stronger. Souls that are wise and aren't jealous. Keen spirits. Deep spirits. Mellow souls. I want to feel some warmth in the cold. I want to love some honest woman with a soul as gritty as mine. We'll roll embraced on the dark wet concrete. Everything has been so pretty... It's not real. This is my lack of satisfaction seeping through. That wanting feeling disguising itself yet becoming unmasked. It's not deep. It's shallow. It's not real, it's fake. But, it is, and it is true. I'm bored...
I'm just bored. Bored with this industry. My soul needs more.