Friday, October 04, 2013

But I'm looking for the Old Same Place...

Here I am again, in the same old place. I don’t come here much often anymore because I don’t know what to write. I feel like the world’s biggest phony. Everything I do, there is a little voice in my head, wondering if others will like it, if they will judge me, or if they will love me. I suppose that makes me human, but it’s the constant trap of the chronically lonely. I suppose it’s something I just have to accept about myself. All my thoughts and emotions produce chemicals, and my brain becomes addicted to them. If we can do blood transfusions, why can’t we do the same for cerebral fluid?

I walk the same roads over and over. Every day seems to bleed into the next. Some people’s lives are shaped by explosions. The rest of us are eroded over time, like a river carving away at rock. I suppose expecting anything else will lead to disappointment.

Is this the first day of the rest of my life? There are no guarantees about anything. I’ve worked soup kitchens, and seen so many elderly people shuffle through like the walking dead, their faces filthy, lined, and scarred. I wonder if they spent their lives thinking everything would work out eventually. Did they try to make their own lives, only to constantly fight uphill against mudslides, until they finally gave up? Do they still think that they’re fighting? Is just breathing a fight?

You come to a point where you realize that the more you give, the more gets taken. There’s always a bigger dragon to slay, until everyone loses respect for you for chasing them in the first place. Then one day you wake up and realize you doubt yourself all the time - something you never did before. And then you wonder if you’re just making fights where none needs to be.

I worry about my novel. The great thing about my short story collection is that it’s so varied. Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s serious, sometimes it’s dark, sometimes it’s imaginative, sometimes it’s post modern... you get what I mean. But a novel has a central theme. It’s not a movie where there’s “much needed comic relief” to break the tension. I don’t intend to be dark and brooding, it’s just whatever is left after squeezing my mind through a sieve. I just try to make it as interesting as I can.

1 comment:

Aravis said...

First, I've just been having this discussion with another blogging friend re: feeling like you have nothing to say, and wondering how others are reacting to it. You make three now that I know of. It seems to be common amongst us personal blogger types.

Second, there are drugs you can take instead of cerebral fluid. I wouldn't necessarily recommend them.

Some day the first day of the rest of our lives is also going to be our last. How paradoxical. You worked the soup kitchen and saw many who had lost hope. But there are at least as many who haven't, even when they don't have anything. You do what you can for those who are tired from the fight, but continue fighting for yourself. Sometimes you'll fall, sometimes you'll succeed. Don't fight where you don't need to, but do fight when you do. Self-doubt is human, never think otherwise. The only ones who never doubt themselves are those with narcissistic and/or antisocial personality disorder(s). Allow me to deal with them ;0)

Yes, a novel is necessarily going to be less varied. This doesn't mean that you can't inject humor at times. Don't try to make the story into something "as interesting as you can." Just make it what it is, what it should be, as you feel it. The rest will take care of itself.

And that, sir, is the gospel according to Aravis. You have to listen to me, because I said so. LOL