It is early for a weekend. I've been up nearly two hours. There is a wedding coming up later today. It's going to be a strange night, I think. Meanwhile, I've been writing today. This is a good thing. Only about 300 words so far, but better than the nothing I've written all the rest of the week. It's a story about an old worn out rock star and his best friend. We've all been there, right?
It is time, I think, to suss out my life. I've said this before, but for real now. For real. Staring down the barrel of 30, where do I have to go from here? I feel my own mortality daily. But that's always been the case. I don't tell people, but it has. Is that normal? I have no idea. It's a funny thing. When you think about the end of you, it makes your desire to leave a legacy stronger, but you become less and less sure of how to do it. You become a cliche of your own design. You become stagnant ostensibly by sheer will alone. This seems impossible. I feel an oxymoron.
The following will make no sense... Unless, of course, it does.
Words tumble from me, at times, that are not well understood. I have felt humbled recently. My movement has become restricted. I am an island made of broken glass. Don't tread on me. We are, all of us, constantly running into each other in the hopes that we can beach comfortably, that we don't smash ourselves on another's shore. It is painful. The last thing I want to do is per-rambulate myself into oblivion here, but it seems to be inevitable. I want this to mean something. I want everything to mean something. I often feel that taking meaning where there is none is a crutch of the weak. I struggle with that. Mainly because, I feel it can also be a sign of great genius.
Humanity is relative, generally. Our rules give us insight into ideas that are beyond us. Our songs, our paintings, our novels, our wars, ourselves; these are the things that we have. These are the things that make us us. They have no meaning outside of what we have constructed for them. They mean everything to us. We are not a gnat's fart to anything in this universe other than ourselves, but according to us, we are the most sophisticated, important thing in this damn place. I'm not sure why I went off on that tangent...it's gone now.
I've scraped by my whole life, convincing myself that I have it good. No one does. No one gets everything they want. Not even the richest among us. We are too greedy. We want contradictory things. We are all oxymorons. I stress the moron. Accept exception. Decry oblivion. Ha...just thought of this one: Defenestrate the hate. I want that bumper sticker. On second thought, maybe I don't. I've got plenty of hate in me. You do too. Saying you don't means you're only lying to yourself. That's ok, we all do it.
In the end...I don't know. No one knows what happens in the end. It's a line, you only get the one. No Tom Sawyering yourselves. Though I wonder what that would be like. A bird's eye view to your own funeral could be fun. You'd definitely learn a lot. Death makes people do some crazy shit. I wish it weren't so. I wish we were able to be crazy all the time.
I wish I may, I wish I might, I might do some foolish things tonight. That's life. Social faux pas? Fuck it. Say something awkward at work? Fuck it. Improbable love triangle got you down? Fuck it. That's a double entendre for you. YOLO, right? Carpe diem and all that. Never get a second chance at a first impression... no wait, that one doesn't fit. Forget it. This is it, laid out. Nonsensical though it may be, these are the things I am thinking about right fucking now. Deal with it. Or don't... you know, up to you.
