format
this playlist of posts is now set to shuffle.
i save the entries to my hard drive as i write them, and i post them when i feel it appropriate -- not necessarily in the order they were written.
the result, dear reader, is intended to entertain and confuse you.
get fucked.
i mean, thank you.
nothing is hatching
I was doing a lot of thinking down I-43 on the way to Oostburg this morning, and I think i might be able to explain the cloud looming over me.
Growing up, at a very young age people started telling me I was special. And I, being very young and unwise, believed them. When they said "special", they meant apt. When they told me I'd be successful, they meant I could go to a good school and get a job at a good company. When they told me I could do anything I put my mind to, they meant I had a few more choices than most people if I was willing to work hard enough for it.
Most of this pandering came during elementary school, after which my parents started moving around. This was to be a long and difficult time for me, during which I held on to the belief that I would be successful and happy one day as if it were a life preserver; in many respects, it was.
Half a lifetime ago, I'd look at that image in the mirror and I had no idea how I was going to become the person I believed I would become, but I believed someday things would all be different. I've found that at age 24 I'm still waiting. I look in the mirror and I still see that kid anxious for the future to deliver me into happiness.
Its kind of like finding an abandonded nest with an unhatched egg and deciding to incubate the egg. Imagining with excitment what will hatch and what will become of it, its easy to justify the work involved caring for the egg. Soon days become weeks, then months and nothing ever develops. There finally comes a point where its time to consider that you've been nursing a shell with a corpse inside.
I'm the one dead inside.
I feel like a shell.
I feel unborn.
Going to work to get another paycheck to pay rent and put food in my mouth is not going to make me feel alive any more than a heat lamp is going to reanimate a dead bird fetus.
I don't want to believe that my dreams are hopeless any more than Terry Schiavo's parents wanted to believe their daughter was gone forever (yep, i just went there). But when you're braindead, you're braindead. And I have to consider than my dreams are in a persistent vegetative state.
This is hard for me.
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