Every day I’m dying, figuratively speaking. Ossifying. I’d like to think that I’m a vivacious operative of my own destiny, but that’s not exactly the case. If you don’t know what to make of that, you’re not 44.
It does me no service to look back and see where I may have gone wrong, or to drag along these threads of regrets, or to navel-gaze on what I’m not doing right right now. I’m a slave of habit, an addict of repetition, a drone of comforts, an engine of mediocrity. It’s not enough that I know what’s wrong, or that I have so many ideas of what might be wrong enough that I can fix. I can identify my barriers, obstacles, and impediments until the end of time, but I will get nowhere. No. Where. No. Place.
I need to shake it up. You won’t believe how much I need to shake it up. The grind. The same stomping grounds. Epoch. I lose so much time there, so much momentum, so much creativity. Why do I keep going there? I hope to run into the people I know; maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But I keep going. But so much changes, even in that static place, and I have to keep wondering at what point it is no longer worth going. Sure, there are some good people there. Sure. But by and large, I turn to that place as my default, and it kills me. I’m dying.
I don’t make music any more. I don’t write poetry. I don’t draw. I don’t write stories, read, philosophize, dream big…nothing. I’m dying.
There is a big fucking world out there beyond the little triangular groove I run. Home, to work, to Epoch, to home.
I want to live.