Working for a living actually brings you closer to death.
I’ve been working every day, not fully living, crawling closer to death. Or, at least that’s what it seems like.
I’m wondering if I’m doing it to avoid how I feel, or if the reasons I’m telling myself I’m doing this are the whole truth: sometimes money buys dreams.
Maybe I’m doing it to cope? Maybe it’s because I don’t know what else to do with myself right now? I feel in limbo. I feel impatient. I feel aimless. I always feel scared.
Soon there won’t be any more work till spring.
I fucking quit (maybe?)
“Fuck work. Don’t work if you don’t want to.” -Keith (he pays me for shit). Smart.
If I work enough, then I can become working. It’ll destroy me.
Take apart my mind piece by piece and lose half of them.
Maybe I’ll find new places inside myself, like a walking meditation, like an introspective mushroom trip.
Maybe I’ll just find that dark space that sucks the life out of me through my rented hands.
And I wonder “is this better than drinking?”.
Don’t answer that, I could barely finish the thought.
The answer is yes, if it’s a choice between the two.
The answer is no, if it’s a question with more than two choices (because the other choices could be better than work or drink and there are a lot of them).
The answer is: I guess so. If it’s what I need to do right now to be safe. If it’s because I’m lacking the fight in me to do many other things. If it’s easier than choosing something different when I don’t have the mental stamina to choose. If so many things and stories and deaths and near deaths and sadnesses ride my mind. If sometimes all the heartache of life gets through and into my deepness. If it’s only temporary and I’m conscious of it. If it’s because sometimes surrendering myself to hard challange and fighting to make it through is a different way for me to feel real.
I need to feel real.
I don’t feel real.
I’ll feel real again soon.
Yeah, it’s better than drinking.
I wonder how I can live in such a mental duality so continuously for so long without tearing myself apart and becoming two people. I’m so strong and resilient. So sensitive and emotional. Today, I feel both hopeful and hopeless. I feel present and very far away and outside of myself.
My room mate and I have been having a continuous early morning conversation about how nothing really matters.
Nothing Matters: A Mantra.
In a world where everything is so subjective and fragile and momentary, what actually matters? Do your bills matter? Or what you had for lunch? That you had to work today? Does it really matter if you quit your job? Burn all your notebooks? Yell at the ocean? What about if you do the dishes? Clean your room? Run away?
How you feel matters.
How you feel about everything is really the only thing that matters.
But what if you can never totally tell how you feel? What if something happened to mess up how you understand your feelings? So, now you never know if your feelings are lies twisted around inside your mind, tying up your heart all fucked and knotted in your throat. So you try to be the best person you can be but never know if you’re actually letting yourself be true. Are you really trying?
Choking on your own heart beat, confused and at a loss for words. Wondering if anything matters, wondering how to feel real.
What if you don’t know how to feel things properly because some time in your past you were made to believe that your feelings are crazy, made up and wrong. You’ve spent so much time trying to untangle those lies that your fingers bleed from the rawness of undoing the knots. Blood has gotten on everything. It’s smeared across the panorama of your ideas on how to feel and it obscures the details. It makes you wonder if there’s more that’s been obscured, but you can’t quite tell. How many details do you miss? How many forgiving’s can you give before you find that walking away was a better idea? How late will you be to leave? How intensely you feel, but what do you name these feelings? What if you’re just trying to be good, but you’re actually being too kind? Too sensitive? Too insensitive?
Can you trust yourself anyway?
Should you trust yourself…?
So, if nothing really matters but your feelings, and you can’t trust your feelings, what the fuck can you trust? and if you can’t trust something, how can it matter? fuck.
I feel nauseous.
I feel tired. I feel avoidant. I feel dishonest with myself. I feel restless and over worked. I feel like it’s almost time to go. It’s almost time to do. It’s almost time to hurry up and wait.
I feel hopeful. I feel like I’m trying to believe in something big. I feel scared. I feel skeptical. I feel desire. I feel drive and growth and change. I feel.