Delirious at Dawn

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.

Distracted Explanations (from a Gone Away Mind)

I go through stages in the way that I approach the world.  I know that is a vague statement.  Let me be more specific.  I often spend a few months gathering information, just listening, reading, drinking and letting shit roll together in my mind.  Following that will usually be a catalyzing moment, often inspired by a creative action of a friend or a blog article that makes me realize that I'm not making things of my own.  I grow restless and start writing a lot.  My info intake drops shortly and I push as much out of my brain as possible.  It's like giving birth, except completely different.  Then, when I run low on material to dump onto a page, I start to get back into trolling available sources of knowledge again.

Hmm...what's the point of writing this down?  I don't know.  Maybe I'm trying to change something about myself?  Maybe I just wanted to think about it?  

...Ah, the TV's ambient noise and light is drawing my attention.  I need to learn to turn this damn box off sometimes.  But now is not that time.  I'll be back sometime soon.

Things I Know

Here is what I know.

A man can put off his dreams indefinitely, but that doesn't mean he stops thinking about them.
It's damn near impossible to live without money.
The world is a place full of rules that I hate.
The most beautiful and important things are never the easy things.
There is an excess of hatred in the world.
There is an excess of hatred in me.
Hatred is damn near useless.
If you strive for something, people will mock you.
If you do not strive for something, people will mock you.
People like to mock others because everyone is different and people hate differences.
Mocking people for being different makes me feel better, but only if it's behind their back and they don't find out.
There are a lot of things that I don't like about myself.
Seemingly, most people are fundamentally the same.
Yes, even (and often, especially) the ones who seem fundamentally different.
Anyone who says they have no regrets is lying.
Probably to themselves.
Unless they're 5.
I wish I was 5 again.
Writing is one of the only things that makes me feel like I'm actually contributing to society.
I am terrified that I don't contribute anything to society.
Despite how we're taught to write, endings are often anticlimactic.

A Note on the New Writing Project

We are 4 weeks underway in the writing project so far. It is going well. I'm really enjoying having a short piece to work on every week and it lets me get a bit creative outside of the structured projects I already have going.

I believe we've switched gears on the new blog, I think that might take a little too much time to set up and maintain. I do believe we are going to start taking stories from this project and trying to get them published magazine side. That's my plan at least, I will give help when asked, but the others are on their own with what they do with their own writing.

So wish me luck on that.

New stories every week, nice.

New Project (52 Weeks of Writing)

I have embarked on a new project. A group of three friends will be writing 1000 word stories each week for the next year. Do cry for us, Argentina. It won't be easy balancing this with other writerly duties and work, but screw it, this is what I want for myself, I might as well make it happen. I believe I will be starting a new blog to document our progress and display some of said stories as we go. I'll post the link for that here when it is ready (probably not until the end of this month).

In the meantime I'll be writing.