More than a month later

I've been stuck for a long time now. Stopped writing here in order to focus on my work that "actually paid me money." But here I am, taking my paycheck without having done anything anyway. At least in August, I felt better, having had an outlet to express myself with. I just felt sick of talking and talking about things without doing anything. I got so sick of feeling like I wasn't making any progress that I tried to focus on one thing at a time. I failed miserably. I've never been so unproductive in my life and I'm beyond even feeling bad about it at all.

I was feeling like I was bitching about things, writing about my feelings, the things I wanted to do, the things Iw as gong to do, there was just too much talk in general. That's why I thought I'll stop writing here and focus all my attention on doing. Surely some execution would put me at ease, and I could pick this up again once I've accomplished something more tangible. Here I am, a month later, having accomplished nothing. Another waste of time. Life is slipping away through my fingers, it seems like. I've let myself rot to shit and I keep slipping further everyday from the life I wanted to create. 

Few weeks ago, I decided that I'm going to apply to a college or something, but my situation has ot changed one bit. I'm not any richer than I was. I've made painfully slow progress in some endeavors, while regressing embarassingly in others. It didn't occur to me that when you aim to become a good writer, writing is an act in itself. I had become frustrated with the restless pool of emotions that swelled up inside me, and sought comfort in worldly accomplishment. After all is said and done, I don't know whether I've done anything at all.

Something I heard struck out to me recently, how I need to change my identity to solidify long-term progress. If I don't identify as a creator, I will keep regressing back to being a consumer. I struggled with that a lot, because it seemed like my actions were what formed my identity in the first place. This unceasing whirlpool of neverending throughts, ideas, and emotions, I keep day dreaming of the day I will do something with them.

Yet when it comes time to take a step, I feel mortified, scared shitless. I feel helpless and unable to do anything about it. That's why I stay small. Afraid of failure. How can I change my identity in this hellish cycle of self-sabotage? If you ask me who I am, I would say that I'm a lazy dreamer who's more of a loser. A weak immature boy who's plagued with addiction. A pathetic, undependable, moody, implusive guy who's never accomplished anything worth mentioning. A disgusting, filthy, and indisciplined binger watcher who's never stuck to anything for more than a week.

Poor in heart, mind, and soul. The most mediocre man you'll ever see. No talent or inherent value to speak of, never having worked a day in my life, I just keep doing the esiest thing possible. A sad person who can't do anything he sets his mind to. Ignorant, conceited, self-rigtheous, unjustifiably superior, and all in all not a good person to be around. Is that my identity, then? Or mere observations I make of myself? These are the things that I've always done, but looking back, it all seems like a long chain of inevitable cases leading to unchangable effects.

Thoughts of dreams and destiny buzz around my head like an annoying mosquito when I'm half asleep. Too loud to ignore, too lazy to act on or do anything about. Burying my head in the ground I tell myself that this too shall pass. I prefer to notice things as they unfold rather than doing anything about them. Why has I surrendered my right to struggle? Why do I prefer to be comfortable? There really is a ton of comfort to be found in the diterministic view of life. It is the hieght of comfort in itself.

There is another side to my identity. I see myself as a person who'd especially aware of things. Perhaps not smart, but surely wise. With some specalized knowledge of the world because of my inner zen. I think highly of myself. I consider myself intelligent and worthy of greatness. But my intuition loudly shums these ideas. It screams at me that this is the height of conceit. That the only thing fueling my pride is my ability to soothe myself at a moment's notice. The truly remarkable quality of mine is that of a rapist: the ability to make myself feel better in the moment, through any way possible.

I once through of myself as the embodiment of curiosity. I thought the beyond anything else, this single value had fueled all my life's choices. I desparately want to believe that even now. Yet curiosity is nothing more than mental libido. It's the mind getting horny for the dots it's about to connect. Once the circuit is complete, it's tossed aside in the garbage, like a fucking droopy used condom, or even more like a wet tissue.

At the end of the day, I had hoped my fall would humble me forever. I will no longer be able to think highly of myself again. Free from the follies of the ego. Obviously, I will never be free. As long as I live. There are many things that are wrong with me. An aversion against pharmaceutical drugs and advertisements. A dislike against valuing money and pinching pennies. A ton of things that I have picked up on, none of which are helping me at this stage in life. I refuse to give into dispair and keep trying to look at the bright side. I cling to hope for my dear life. 

The truth is, I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself. I'm sick of feeling pathetic and disgusting. I'm sick of quitting. I keep giving up so often, I figured it was better to stop trying. All that is true. I wish to write about things myself, and create soemthing for others to make use of. I can't stop myself from mindlessly consuming everything around me like a black hole. I am headed straight to oblivion. The truth is that things are really bad.  am doing horrible. I have been for a long time. I have been my whole life. 

But if this past month has tought me anything at all, trying hopelessly is what was keeping me sane. The pain and suffering, the emotional exhaustion, all the overwhelming emotions of trying and failing, they made me tired to the bone. The stressed me out to my soul. Spending more than an hour writing my own fucking diary when someone is paying me to write their blogs? The guilt was very real. Yet this past month showed me a side of myself that scared me even more. The wild animal that will consume anything thrown his way. The one who will eat till it bursts. Turns out, you don't need drugs to abuse substances. All you need is time, privacy, and energy. 

That wild animal is completely fine with wasting its life. For it to have clean water, good sleep, and tasty food is a happy life in itself. When time comes just add a wet hole to fuck. Doesn't matter what's around it. And then what? The cycle of failure continues. In that light, it's better not to fuck at all. I keep thinking of the way things are supposed to be. As I realized a few days ago, thinking itself is a waste of life. Knowing, that is the ultimate wisdom. Acting, that is the only salvation. All the wisdom in the world won't save you until you start acting. The irony is knowing that you have to act. It's a stalemate, you see? An oxymoron. Thinking about thinking is better than knowing about doing. 

Tiring yourself out before taking the first step. Burning out without working at all. So you need to change you identity and alter your beliefs to stick to a new lifestyle, but the juggernaut of old habits push you forward toward oblivion. It's so much easier to just let it all go. Just go with the fucking flow. Because those old habits are fueld by a primal sense of self. One that belives it deserves to feel better right now. The only alternative being death. Never will you find a more immature, selfish, and ugly worldview. Born out of misery, hatred, and self-loathing. These self destructive values are forged in the furance of negativity, as strong as a balck star. 

White-hot rage and existential curses. A pitch-dark hopelessness, raw vulnerablity, and the bone-chilling fear that goes with it all. That is the core of my identity. To think that there is hope for change is a laughable ideal. Perhaps there is no hope after all. But my pleasure seeking mind is not noble enough to sink down to darkness quietly. My selfish and never ending greed won't allow a quick and easy surrender. And so, I embark on an fruitless journey out of compulsion. Chasing highs is no different from chasing dreams. Riding the dragon is the same as taking the bull by its horns. I still haven't chasen anything or made a real change.

Bored with eating too much, I find joy in starving myself. Tired of watching the same old crap, I try to create something new. That's what it feels like. The poison becomes the cure. The values that lead to damnation turn around toward the light. Is this God's grace? Divine mercy of the eternal truth? This to me, is at the heart of every good story. Hoplessly complex, but perfectly balanced. There might not be any use in stuggling, just as there was certain doom in corruption. Those are the black and whites. Work and ye shall recieve. Sin and thou shall suffer. All the amazingly vibrant, dark, and musky colors in between, that's where life happens.

It seems like I cannot afford the price I have to pay. It's almost certain that I cannot muster up what my dreams ask of me. Yet that is where courage comes in. But what of miracles, you might ask? Sure ly there is room for a miracle or two. Working a hopeless situation, while hoping for a miracle doesn't seem like courage at all. But courage in itself does nothing to secure victory. The noble, valiant, and righteous die just the same on the world's battle field. Their shit reeks of death and their rot turns to mush.

Even the hopeless loser who tried his best can sleep peacefully at night, I suppose. My mind's sole mission is the find and secure the best of all choices available. It truns, purrs, runs, and heaves. The wheels always turn and creek. Justifying, judging, classifying, analysing, decipering, and so on...

I try to keep myself out of it's inner workings. I try my best to pull myself out of rish and rewards. Once something seems clear enough for me to feel good about it, relentless execution is key. Let the process become my salvation. Right or wrong, win or lose, to concern myself with those is too much of a burden, it seems. That is the truth of all truths. To let the story unfold by itself. Direction will come whenever necessary. Spoilers are impossible to encounter. All that's there is to be taken in with pleasure. That, is the ultimate conclusion. Visual arts, animation, laptops, and tablets. Blogs, copywriting, digital marketing, and food. Whatever must be done, let's enjoy the process. Identity, lifestyle, and self improvement are not to be included.

I do worry at times that I leave no room for joy. I keep coming back to my basic urges, falling back into old cycles, and I can't help but blame the lack of this or that. Not having friends around or anything pleasurable. Being away from nature's wonders, clean air, and good weather. Lost in an endless maze of concrete boxes filled with the strangest of all strangers. All those things can be deplorable. There is something to be said about the lack of a good enviroment. But not everything can be figured out and solved. These are just one of those things best not talked about.

What's the point of thinking about the impedeing doom? Let's look at what remains, and what you and I can do.