The random thoughts of days long past never cease to give me insight into the purpose of tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean I do not doubt. That does not mean I do not have sleepless nights where I wonder about my purpose and my being. That does not mean I ever forget. I will never forget.
It may seem strange that a self-professed writer and journalist would have such thoughts. Aren’t we always so cocky? Aren’t we always so sure of ourselves? And yet, I can’t find a single reason why things don’t go as planned. In fact, I don’t even understand the concept of defeat. I cannot be defeated unless I’m six feet under.
This is an exercise in futility; a lost cause; a hopeless endeavor; a meaningless journey. With a pack of Parliament’s on my left and the bottle of Peach Schnapps on my right, I dive head long into the hopelessness of tomorrow with a psychotic optimism of today. That is the truth about me—I’m a psychotic optimistic, pessimistic, passive-aggressive, loner who has no business doing anything but working in a retail store his entire life, and yet is trying to make it as a writer.
With waves of doubt cascading into emotion, my last paragraph makes no sense to me even as I try to read it through the intrusive rip tides that pull me away from the main focus of this exercise of futility. But—then again—there was never a true purpose to this. The only true purpose was living without fear, and that’s all I’m trying to do. But I like fear. I like the smell of it. It makes me want to understand why things are the way they are. I don’t try to correct the problems of the world, but record them.
So I light a cigarette, pausing momentarily from my stream of consciousness to inhale toxic fumes that I am completely aware will probably be the death of me. I think of all the people in this world, and I laugh. Then I cry. Then I hate myself. But then I realize that it all comes back to a single sentence on a blank page. Perhaps mysticism can be taken out of context? Either way, I know that I’m screwed. This is my nature. I love and hate it, like I love and hate myself. Nothing on God’s green earth will change the fact that I was put on this earth to put pen to paper. And that’s what I’m gonna do.
But I know it’s an exercise in futility. Just don’t try to stop me.