The Whites of their Eyes
So here we are, all over again. I get the feeling I keep saying the same things on an endless repeat.
Actually, it feels worse this time. Yeah, I think it's worse than before. Definitely. But then again, I'm being more open about things, so...? Huh. Perhaps not. Maybe I feel like I'm using communication about my mental state as a sort of emotional battering ram (or is that just my own sense of guilt that I should ultimately jettison before someone other than me uses it against me?), but the gain in momentum of the extremity of such statements is worrying, I suppose.
As previously discussed in all shapes and forms of my writing at almost all times, I am struggling. I mean, I am constantly struggling! Just sometimes I'm more aware of it than not, and this is one of those times. I don't think I've hit rock bottom entirely, but I there's a gathering sense of density, almost, as if I'm about to collide with something very solid in the not-too-distant future. Oh to be unaware.
That said, I do like to think that each and every time I speed towards my stony level that it's ever so slightly different. This moment's struggle (the struggle du jour, if you will) is my feelings of irrelevancy. It's too easy, really, getting stuck (and in fact, one of my biggest fears is getting stuck in general) into a bad place, especially when in the company of others who, for whatever reason advertise their own incalculable levels of success, whether delusional or not. A carefully manufactured veneer of how relevant they are, how much they matter, which is constantly crowed out, with the requisite levels of privilege and expectation that goes with it. I believe the expression "having smoke blown up their arses" might be related, you never know.
And now I'm all but worn out. I'm just running out of chutzpah, essentially, and it's killing me. Doubtless I'll already have said about how this job I have in the daytime, pushing pens and taking calls of a morning is wearing away what little soul I have left, and now I have all but convinced myself that I should give up on music entirely, that I will never ever succeed, either through lack of talent or lack of contacts, lack of opportunity, lack of talent... Lacking in every way. That even the effort in trying to mount some kind of revival would be totally wasted. I've been here for a long time now, and am no longer new and exciting. There's nothing I could do that would reflect positively on the careers of those above me, so there is no reason to help me get any further. I am a failure, a waste of any potential there was ten years ago.
But... not quite. Something happens when I really hit the deck, where I basically lose all kind of social filter and just burn through the world. It's not pretty, but it helps, but getting there is the worst, to be frank. I'm almost there, blunt force jabs at people's stupidity set off with the odd piquant suicide joke.
I actually started doing something new and interesting recently, spurred on by the lack of reward I was finding in the rest of my life - Dadaist collage, or at least, my own fair stab at it. Finding I have no meaningful avenues to exercise my creativity left, I instead chose a meaningless one, and have plundered the Office for old newspapers and catalogues ever since. I have already been commissioned for a large-scale piece by a man I could only describe as the most enthusiastic person ever, and to be honest, it's quite nice doing something where my hierarchical betters have no experience with. Maybe it sounds cheap, but eh, it's good enough for now to stop me from doing anything I could regret.
Eventually, I suppose, I will fall that final inch, and then I will declare war on society and myself and come out slightly different, but essentially more buoyant.
Fingers crossed.
Actually, it feels worse this time. Yeah, I think it's worse than before. Definitely. But then again, I'm being more open about things, so...? Huh. Perhaps not. Maybe I feel like I'm using communication about my mental state as a sort of emotional battering ram (or is that just my own sense of guilt that I should ultimately jettison before someone other than me uses it against me?), but the gain in momentum of the extremity of such statements is worrying, I suppose.
As previously discussed in all shapes and forms of my writing at almost all times, I am struggling. I mean, I am constantly struggling! Just sometimes I'm more aware of it than not, and this is one of those times. I don't think I've hit rock bottom entirely, but I there's a gathering sense of density, almost, as if I'm about to collide with something very solid in the not-too-distant future. Oh to be unaware.
That said, I do like to think that each and every time I speed towards my stony level that it's ever so slightly different. This moment's struggle (the struggle du jour, if you will) is my feelings of irrelevancy. It's too easy, really, getting stuck (and in fact, one of my biggest fears is getting stuck in general) into a bad place, especially when in the company of others who, for whatever reason advertise their own incalculable levels of success, whether delusional or not. A carefully manufactured veneer of how relevant they are, how much they matter, which is constantly crowed out, with the requisite levels of privilege and expectation that goes with it. I believe the expression "having smoke blown up their arses" might be related, you never know.
And now I'm all but worn out. I'm just running out of chutzpah, essentially, and it's killing me. Doubtless I'll already have said about how this job I have in the daytime, pushing pens and taking calls of a morning is wearing away what little soul I have left, and now I have all but convinced myself that I should give up on music entirely, that I will never ever succeed, either through lack of talent or lack of contacts, lack of opportunity, lack of talent... Lacking in every way. That even the effort in trying to mount some kind of revival would be totally wasted. I've been here for a long time now, and am no longer new and exciting. There's nothing I could do that would reflect positively on the careers of those above me, so there is no reason to help me get any further. I am a failure, a waste of any potential there was ten years ago.
But... not quite. Something happens when I really hit the deck, where I basically lose all kind of social filter and just burn through the world. It's not pretty, but it helps, but getting there is the worst, to be frank. I'm almost there, blunt force jabs at people's stupidity set off with the odd piquant suicide joke.
I actually started doing something new and interesting recently, spurred on by the lack of reward I was finding in the rest of my life - Dadaist collage, or at least, my own fair stab at it. Finding I have no meaningful avenues to exercise my creativity left, I instead chose a meaningless one, and have plundered the Office for old newspapers and catalogues ever since. I have already been commissioned for a large-scale piece by a man I could only describe as the most enthusiastic person ever, and to be honest, it's quite nice doing something where my hierarchical betters have no experience with. Maybe it sounds cheap, but eh, it's good enough for now to stop me from doing anything I could regret.
Eventually, I suppose, I will fall that final inch, and then I will declare war on society and myself and come out slightly different, but essentially more buoyant.
Fingers crossed.
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