Savages

I don't know what my problem is. Usually, and I've always had this problem, I go back and read over the past few things I've written. But, the trend seems to be that I'm disgusted, and only the first thing I've ever written do I still like, and if I were to read it again today, it may fall directly off the pedestal. Well.

Today, I let it get me. Or, just now I should say. Depression, ever present, but sometimes dormant, has been a reliable friend who has walked with me since birth. Usually, I tell people that I only can account for the past decade, but in truth, I think it may be much longer that I've been this way. I wouldn't know. Thankfully, some things in the past were a blur because I just let them pass me by. I don't really regret those lost memories. I still remember a lot, and, I assume the few things I've forgotten aren't notable enough to make anymore impact on my life.

Living for me is no longer numb. Numb is just a word people use because it's the closest thing they know to nothing. Numbness would probably feel nice. It would be something. I'm not projecting this shit, by the way, to make anyone feel sorry for me, etc. This blog is for my own personal use and I frankly don't mind who reads it, but, I would just like to keep to myself these little cracks in the glass so to speak. Maybe it gives me character.

I am heavily influenced by the things around me I've realized. It's unfortunate, because the world isn't exactly brimming with kindness and love and good will. Once again, not trying to be dreary, just truthful. I take the good with the bad. I try not to let either persuade me one way or another. I want to be in reality when it hits hardest. Things go up and they go down.

Down, today, is just another day. It has led me to this. Every once in a while, I decide to write something, and it's getting easier since less of me is concerned with the lack of readership. Thank goodness my words are seldom read.

The reason I'm so scared that someone should decide to pick up my writing, is because outwardly I project a very optimistic and personable facade. I feel like this is getting overly dramatic, but, for me, this is just another day. If I could paint it out, it would be nothing more than an approaching Wednesday, in bed, writing, alone, drinking a beer. That's exactly what it is. Nothing fancy. But everything.

I get doubtful sometimes. Often. I worry what I'm going to do for money, like everyone. I worry about my friends, I talk myself into thinking my lover loves me less. Time keep on tickin' tickin' tickin' into the future. Tomorrow I have to get up and go to work, just like you. Well, hopefully you have a job unlike so many Americans. I don't work enough to really save money. I just work to eat and put gas in my car, and pay a few bills.

I'm going away soon. I'll be in another part of the world. I'm thankful. I'm going to miss the people I have to leave behind, and I'm sure they will miss me, but I don't feel like I'm really here anyway, so what does it matter?

My wish, is that I could get a bit of consistency. I like routine because it's easy. I like knowing how to feel. Now, I don't know what to feel, or who to talk to, or when to be sad or happy. And, the bad part is, it's for no real reason.

I had to quit my biggest vice. I miss smoking. It gave me something to do. Something to feel. It was an excuse to go outside, isolate myself, and spend my money. I don't think it ever filled a void, but now I certainly feel that somethings missing. Maybe, it just masked the hole because I was too busy shopping around for my next carton. Either way, I liked the way it felt in the winter. I would freeze my ass off just to smoke. In the beginning, I would hide out by the lake and stare at the moon.

Maybe some good came from it? I don't know. I know some of the reasons why I feel so terrible, but they are all hard to articulate and seem meager compared to kids without homes or good food, or an education.

I'm going to make a phone call and go to sleep. I don't want to face my own consciousness.