An Entry of no significance

Well well, look who's here again. The pumped up kid, ready to wreck some shit. Just one day of fasting and feeling cocky already. I can imagine now how I fell off the wagon. Hubris, pride, stupidity, but there's more to life than just me and my bullshit. Most often, when I sit down to write, I have no idea what I'm going to write about, today is one of those days. Think before you ink, they said. Let me take a moment to do that now, then. I suppose I'd prefer not to. The whole point was to practice the motions, going from thoughts to words on paper, and then it became therapy, occasionally noting down things like a journal and then a place to write down ideas.

Well, today went as good as any. I can't really remember my dreams at all from last night, cookie woke me up all too early. Woke up at noon and procrastinated for about four hours total throughout the day. Worked out fasted, which felt pretty amazing. I forgot how good it feels to fast. Finally ate a towering plate of protein, veggies drenched in acid and seasoning, and the three last toasts of sourdough. Spent about an hour or two socializing. Must have worked less than three hours, I reckon, probably around one or two. 

That's that for today. There were a few things on my mind, I suppose Peterson and his BS, other people's BS shitty takes on his stuff, and a few other things of no real consequence. All in all an uneventful day, but a great one nonetheless. 

I thought yesterday about a character that scoffs at the enlightened. "How boring," he thinks of them. Inspired by my own struggle with spirituality and egolessness. Sure, one can be happy by ceasing all mental activities, but is the point of life to be happy all the time? I don't really want to get all philosophical about it. The whole deal is inspired by my grappling with these ideas to write a nonfiction book about it all, but I hear what Tarantino does, and it sounds so much more exciting. 

Creating characters in a story and letting them take you places. How exciting is that? I suppose I do not make an attempt at it because on one hand, I feel incompetent, on another, I feel that it'll take too long and I won't be able to finish it. Then I will just spend my time torturing myself over it as if there aren't enough things for me to torture myself over already. I'm afraid it'll become another thing for me to start and leave unfinished, just like everything else I've ever done, so I keep drifting about, trying to note down all my ideas, hoping to capture the lightning that is inspiration itself. I'm sure that I'm just afraid. Afraid that I can't do it. Afraid that it won't be worth spending time on. 

You could say I'm afraid of failure. But more than that, it's like I doubt I could ever do it in the first place. That's what it really is. I thought I wanted something that I can't have, but it's something I'm too cowardly to take a shot at. I'm too scared of making a fool out of myself. I love these things too much, I've put way too much time into them for it all to have been a waste. That's why I continue to delude myself. I lie to myself as I keep binge-watching. I say that this is my education. But it's becoming clear that I just enjoy watching these things. Mindless consumption is hardly a virtue, after all. 

Now I've found another excuse. Oh, there's no money in it. It simply isn't feasible or possible. But I know in my heart of hearts that I desperately want to make my attempt. I would love nothing more than to draw and illustrate, bringing my visions into reality for a living. Inspiring people. Helping out the needy, educating, enlightening, and entertaining, all in one fell sweep. That is my dream, isn't it? They say I need to work really hard at it; otherwise, there's no chance. They say that I have to draw every day and write my heart out, that I just need to dive in and do it, and that there will never be a good time or a perfect moment. It's a leap of faith.

Well, then, what is it that I'm waiting for? Do I even remember what I wanted to create? We all want to think we are special, but some people do seem to have a gift. All I've really learned is that it is impossible to know, one way or another. The only things that make sense are self-fulfilling prophecies and hardened convictions. I had hoped many times that perhaps I will just forget about all this, but that's not true. They also said that don't do it unless it must come out of you and that you can't help but create. I've always felt like this is something of that sort. I really felt like this is something I have to do. No questions about it. What kind of story do I want to create?

I wanted to write about loneliness, horror, and corruption. With plenty of humor along the way, of course. I wanted to create a journey of growth, self-discovery, and transformation. Enlightenment, independence, and power. A story about love and relationships and the opposite of those things. I wanted to create characters that were more real than any person you could find off the street. Complex people with multidimensional personalities, depth, and intimacy. There might be nothing else I would want to do more than all that. To just dive into this world of wild imagination. But it scares me because it's unventured territory. More than that, I doubt I could pull it off. 

That's what it really is, I don't think I can do it, but if it's something that I must do anyway, does it matter if I can't pull it off? Isn't a child supposed to fumble and bump into things before it learns to walk? Shouldn't I do that before being afraid of running? I don't have to run at all in the beginning, I couldn't even if I tried or wanted to. Come now, isn't it long enough that you've put off your life's purpose? Isn't it long enough that you've run away from yourself? What kind of salvation can you expect to find out there? 

The world is meaningless and chaotic, it is waiting for you to capture it in your own words. How long will you make it wait? I was so afraid yesterday. Afraid that I won't be able to change. But this isn't changing at all, is it? It's what we call an awakening. It's stepping into your life's purpose. It's waking up to your own being. There lies a sleeping, monstrous, hulking, and massive beast within me. It's waiting to be awoken because it wasn't allowed entry into the world before.

It lies peacefully in a cramped space, comfy, watching the world through a tiny lens, like images on a screen. It has even forgotten its own glory and lost the awareness of its own mighty power. It's forgotten it all, forgotten itself. It lies in wait. Waiting for a day without even knowing it. The fateful day when it runs free again. Remember. Remember its past glory. Remember what it's like, to be on the inside. Remember what it was like before on the outside. If nothing else were to come of this journey, and if I was to die in my sleep today, at the very least, I wish to remember this vague and blurry copy of a faint memory before I pass on and imagine what it would be like if this mighty dragon was to roam freely once again.