I've hit a wall. I feel like I'm done
with this for a while. A hiatus, if you will. I think a lot of you
people, you readers have probably gotten the idea that the
occurrences in my life haven't exactly been fortunate ones. One of
those occurrences have shown up again. Not so much of an occurrence,
but the onset of something has shown up. Something that I can't say
I can keep under control for much longer. There isn't much I
necessarily choose to hide about myself, so this is going here. This
is my letter to the public, for all those who care to read to do so.
This is largely a letter to myself, as well.
I don't like where my stories are going
right now, so I'm stopping. And I just can't bring myself to do it
anymore. I can't look at a doc file anymore and say “I like what I
see.” I can't look at an incompleted work and force myself to
finish it. I look at what I've written lately, and it's gotten out
of control. It's going into dark places I can't really look at
anymore. I know to some of you they just might strike you as
melodramatic or moderately depressing stories, but when I look at
them, and I see thoughts, events, idealized situations, projections
of bad things I just think I should forget at this point. It's
reaching a point where I feel like it's corroding my work, that I am
merely a man on a soapbox in an abandoned warehouse near a pier,
preaching to an imaginary crowd about—ironically enough—social
ostracism and absolute indifference towards the world around one's
self. Nobody has cared, and neither have I. Well, that isn't true.
I care a little.
Now the big problem with the internet
as I've learned to grasp, is that it enables this kind of thought.
Most of you people? Probably not going to even read this. The ones
that do? Most of you have never even met me, and probably never
will. You do not know who I am outside of this place. I am not a
person. There is not a living, breathing person on the other side of
your monitor, is there? I am merely a screen name. I'm and here for
you, and you are here for entertainment. My relevance is tied
directly to your outlet for interactivity, nothing more. When you
leave your computer, I for all intents and purposes do not exist any
longer. You will not carry anything of me or anybody from this place
with you. I could be dead tomorrow, and the only difference it will
make is a name that is now no longer active. Find somebody else to
talk to and IM. Forget inactive name. Continue operation. And I've
slowly began to reach the age where I can look at this and go “Is
this really okay?”
For people who have always felt small,
transparent, or alone most of their lives, the internet seems like an
odd play to alleviate those feelings, but we do it out of
convenience. I like it, though. Because I want nothing more to just
disappear. I want to be irrelevant and not have to worry about being
obligated to people. And the internet does a fantastic job of doing
that for me. As noted, I can just sign out and disappear, and people
would be none the wiser nor would they really honestly care. They
never met me or the person outside this place, why would they? But
note that this isn't exclusive to the internet. I can go to school,
and people talk. But they never think about what that person goes
home to. What kind of life they live. How unhappy they are. We
simply can't be bothered with that. I think I've made it abundantly
clear that I'm just not a very happy person. I don't fundamentally
like who I am. So I can come to a place where I don't have to be
that. And if I feel like occasionally showing who I am, people don't
notice, or they merely look away. I suppose that's what I get for
expecting better from people, but I can hardly expect anything from
myself so I suppose it's probably karma.
Now I sit here in my room at the crack
of dawn, sitting in this chair by myself in complete and utter
silence. Well fine, the typing makes noises, at least. Now, the
ultimate irony behind all this is that the only people who will read
this, already know. And you people are the only ones who are helping
me keep my sanity in this midlife crisis of mine. And that's what
I'm calling it because I can't realistically see life past 40, so
there you go for another morbid thought. The people who should read
this, probably won't. It's just a blog on the internet that people
hardly read, which functions largely as my archive. The people that
should read it for themselves, and the people who I want to read
it—for my sake—won't even notice. This entire confession was
pointless. Nothing will change. There will be no lifeline or
alleviation or counterpoint presented to me. As I sit here
creatively bankrupt of any more stories to tell, I'm probably the
only person who will notice. And I won't do anything about it.
One of these days I'm going to do
something productive with myself, I promise.
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