As the weeks go by, and the heat gets, well....hotter, I find myself wishing that I was able to do so much more than I currently can. I like to stay in most day, but in the summer, I grow weary for wanderlust, to see higher places, carousing around the world in an almost prophetic gallop. I'm. It certain if it's going to happen, but I will see just what's going to go down in the next few months, as summer arrives, -!: I'm left with my final months of my twenties! going through a "funny if it wasn't so true" mid-life crisis.
I'm the kind of loser that you read about in "coming-to-age" stories, not necessarily Holden Caufield, not Wally Babbit, but a well-endowed fuck-up. My biggest fear is that the intelligence I have isn't utltized, and I become nothing more than a workhorse for the state, until I break my proverbial leg, and have to be dragged out back and shot. I like to be challenged in my field, which isn't anything short of an everyday learning curve. I write, and I fuck-up, not on purpose, not without self-doubt, and a fling of the keyboard, but I want to be challenged, we all do, even the laziest, the most erratic of our numbers, demands to be pushed to their fullest extent. Doubt is what keeps us from obtaining goals, that's obvious, but we still all think we're above average intelligence, and have a distinctive "gift"; which makes us the best of the best of X.
I've come to realize that if merit is measured by talent, and talent alone, then we are exacerbated by a criticism from others who doubt us. Criticism, if constructive, or even debilitating is fine, but a complete arrogance of someone's gift is a malevolent, spiteful remark(s) that look to do nothing but tear someone down. We all need a reality check, but the defeated make the successful feel like shit.
Lately I'm in a fog, disengaged, and constantly tired, too tired, too hot to sleep, and sleep when it comes, brings no relief. I want more, don't we all? But look at the world we live on today, look at the utter disdain the majority of us walk around in, that fog, that blindess, a visor blocking any ability to see our potential, because we've written ourselves off so long ago. Deathly notions come to mind when it's applicable to think in such a depressing state, but why are we like this, those who feel the same, of course? For the artist, the hell one can live in every single day, may be their ironically labeled, "saving grace".
Some days I do to want to write, and some days I know all I can ever do is write, but where do I draw the line? Where do I decide that it pains me more than it saves me? Today, I feel shitty, tomorrow, and the next? I'll be cooled by the embracing rain, and the virile green will suck me back to reality form out of myself, and I will see the beauty of the world, and the reason why the summer rains , and lighting storms of the open plains, keeps me prostrated in the open meadow with the downpour, and the love I have it's never too small, it's never gone. For now, I'll let the fog clear, and the rain peper my face with a refreshing rejuvenation, and carry on.
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