I sit clutching a cigarette, barely lit anymore, between the yellowish nudge in my fore and middle fingers, contemplating the words I am about to type for the first time in more than two weeks.
I admit that I am little more than a failure at this point. For all my grandstanding, my proclamations of greatness and forced assurances, I know the truth. I should probably just sit down and shut up, actually goddamn silence my running mouth and put something down worth reading. My first foray back into the purging of my emotions, will most likely be a failure on that front, but what is journaling worth if it cannot temper and hone my skill?
After all, we all create bad art, we all create good art but it is the bad that gives us a point of references. I’ll stop here, before I start drowning underneath all my own bullshit. At least with other peoples you know exactly how much it will take to kill you. With yourself, eeeeh, not so much, part of our bullshit is being able to bullshit ourselves into believing we can take more than we actually can.
A little pathetic really.
But such is the nature of our own ignored and reviled inadequacies. Is it so bad to admit that we’re shit every once in a while? Is it so abhorrent to understand that we arent the greatest, and for acknowledging that, does not make us better than anyone else? It makes you more prone to bouts of depression, anxiety and bad self esteem, but other than that you’re still an over-educated, underachieving asshole child of the world. One finger in your nose, one finger flipping the bird and your ass firmly planted in a government subsidized chair, clothed from the backs of ancestors who could not have dreamed the ideas we dream. Could not fathom the great depths, and lengths of our beautiful, brilliant minds.
I will admit we’re okay.
My own opinion of myself is still out, but knowing me will return as a glowing commendation full of lies I tell myself to sleep at night.
Be good to each other my lovelies. I’ll try to be good to myself, for myself, for you.