Today has been a very busy day (or is it yesterday?) All I have done since just about the moment I woke up until right now, is write. I have written this blog to start myself off, fanatically edited the first two parts of a screenplay I have been contracted to write (tomorrow the contract will be submitted, or is it today?) and have edited two of the three novels in a trilogy I have been working on for the past year. This, along with the nonsense provocations I submit to Twitter and, to a lesser extent, on Facebook (because I actually know most of the people I make a commentary to), has given me hours and hours of focus and pleasure and a great deal of residual pain.
This is, again, one of these brief private confessions that I occasionally compose with the intention of venting everything left over so I can fall asleep. But I can’t–not yet. I do not want to sleep (two of these posts have been deleted and a handful of others have remained–the uncertainty of the very early morning limiting confidence as you just wish you could fall asleep).
We can talk all about depression and the bleak outlook of the present tense, but this is all meaningless because we all see things differently. For some happy is sad and for others tragedy is the moment of greatest triumph. There is no consistency to humanity and it causes many of us to hate without prejudice. But I don’t want to be there in this moment when I am feeling better about myself than I have in a long time. I have gotten more aggressive professionally than I believe I ever have before, this including the four different professions I have undertaken at various points in my life to pay the bills and keep myself alive. Right now I am deadly focused and this is probably last chance I have to make something of myself.
Failure. This is the dirtiest word, if we really strip social identity away and take each person individually. We all fear failure, regret failure, pray or strive to avoid it and hate ourselves when we become its prey. And I have been a horrendous failure for the bulk of my life.
Yes, I have always had a sort of personal charm and the darkest sense of humor capable of making light of anything. I also have a certain intuitive nature that allows me to discern the limits of a person’s edge and then figure out how I can get away with exceeding it. This has been my lone success in life. These have been my short-sighted talents that give me a reason to go on living. And yes, I have a family and yes I love them very much, but someone who considers themselves an artist, in whichever pompous, petty, self-indulgent way, thinks first and foremost of the craft, of themselves, of the design they have made out of life, and all the personal drama and concerns for politics or social causes or upbringing must sometimes take a back seat to the obsessive solipsism of someone living forever in their dreams.
I wander around in this daze of self-satisfaction, undermined by the deep and noxious swill of personal doubt and I swirl and swirl and swirl and swirl and sometimes work so hard that I cannot sleep and I force an extended mania and the whole thing goes round and round and round until I finally give up hope and say fuck the world and wonder why I even bothered to try, because everything ends in failure. I mean, life, we live and accomplish the many things we can claim to be proud of before we reach our death beds. But no matter, no matter how much we’ve done, how much we’ve created or accomplished or blossomed into the world, death is still the final failure. We were not able to hold on to our lives forever. We are dusted into the past and remembered by those who knew us as something we never truly were.
And we become lost legends, the lesser fairy tales of heroes pretty soon forgotten. And this is our lives, empty, forsaken and forlorn. Why do we bother to try anymore?