Mirror-less

Sitting here, trying to write something, for someone else. I felt a loss. There was a moment. A flailing of my inner monologue.

"What do we kn...."

Damn.

"Since the announcement we've seen ... "

WHAT! What have we seen? Finish the fucking sentence. Complete a thought, for the love of all things!

My hands froze. I don't want to complain. I don't want to turn down solid paychecks. I don't want to stop being good at my job. A job.

My heart pulled tight at all the words I was supposed to be putting down. The trains of thought I had been purchased tickets for hours ago, days before in some cases--trying to put some of these pieces together before sitting down and getting to work--had derailed. And it made me sad. It made me fear the idea that I was now expending the final gasps of clarity on something that another person would give me money for.

It's not a bad thing. Mind you. I've made a decent living applying my opinion, or facts, to topics that pop up. It has been a hell of a lot of fun. But it never got in the way. It never pulled me down.

My head isn't above the waves anymore. These swells. They collectively bully my concept of the abilities I possess.

There's nothing I hate more than finding out the cement in my fingers has begun to dry. I am fighting the joints on these didgets of mine, trying to get them to punch down atop these keys I desire. The letters I deserve.

I need more of me and less of you. I need more of the words I want to say and less of the words you're going to pay me for.

Here's the part where I tell you I have a dream job, and I can't stand it.

I'm in a cold cabin. The breath falling out of my lungs billows plumes of white that are hard to see through. The corpse on the chair by my feet looks like me, dresses like me, and once spoke as I do now.

But I lay, looking out the window to a field of fresh white powder and those words I once spoke from my soapbox now don't even escape my mouth. They just rattle like screws in a mason jar around in my head. Oh, what a noise.  There's no one even here to hear me if I wanted to speak.

Maybe that's for the better.

Lost loves tie the knot with men far better than I am, or was, or maybe could ever become. I feel warm, and happy for them, but severely disconnected. Because it just doesn't matter.

I see a face I adore, in a shop, I am in but my feet don't move, and my throat closes on those "hellos" and "how are you"s that I should be letting fly.

There's something about being me right now that doesn't feel authentic. It doesn't feel human. Not like the me I had known before. A touch of a bunch of other demands and all of a sudden my own voice doesn't sound so sweet anymore. I can't even fathom the process right now. I'm cut up, and falling to pieces but and the carpet I'm standing on is going to be a bitch to clean up, if I survive it.

Must I have been nominated for a particular reason right?

Logging all of my passion into a bin that I cannot access when my soul needs me to read through them--to work through them--is a jail I did not commit myself to on purpose. A happy accident this is not.

The part where I meet myself in a greasy diner at 3 o'clock in the morning and attempt to convince other me no to murder our future.

It's a hard conversation to have. But it can be audible if it helps you.

Making art, with love, is nothing short of extraordinary. It should be commended. In public. For any of those capable of doing it.

And I'm doing a shit job of giving myself the patience, or time, to even bother to contemplate such practice. But I need to. I've written a few posts with this flavour to them. And I hope that one day I take the time to see this place I was in--where I unintentionally sabotaged my heart by proceeding to continuously put pins in any floatation device I found to be held up on.

It's good to write these too. Maybe it's torture. Perhaps it's masochism. Tying myself down to my writing chair, and forcing myself to repent on an outlet that bears my own name. A name I have grown proud of. A name that repeatedly reinforces my idea of who I can be, and the one true blood that boils in my veins when I'm stuck being someone I am not.

I can not--no, I refuse--to continue this trend of pretending that the everyday world and its problems, are more important than my fire. Because all they actually are is a breeze. It's a wind that can grow to a vile speed, enough to put out the flame of anyone not willing find shelter in a purpose, brewed from within them.

I need more click clack, and less step back. We need more here's that, tonnes of forged paths.

But for now, all I can do is remain aware of the few things that spur me to sound more like the me I believe that I can find pride in.

I'm a narcissist. I'm sure I can find a tree to rely on.

It's time, and I'm crazy tired of being this other guy.