It has become something of an oddity that I have found the time and clarity of mind to sit down and write anything of length and substance. But not for lack of trying of a shortage of impetus, rather the drought has been the result of far too many things plaguing my already addled mind. The job situation has been a near unyielding source of stress and discontent. My recent move presented its own trials and woes, albeit it has paid off so far. And of course, the Long Saga continues to be written, a narrative with no clear ending and all the characters running stagnant in their roles. How terrible and boring such a book would be, and yet it is my life and I can’t find a single person that finds my tribulations to be anything short of remarkable.
I say remarkable because when explained at length, the circumstances of my upbringing, the inescapable nuances of my vernacular and of course the tongue in cheek irreverence that allows me to come off as charming and tolerable, most are staggered as to just how I keep my mind about me. I’ve offered a myriad of explanations but sadly, none has seemed “right”. Truth be told, the exact method by which I have managed to escape the seemingly inevitable maladies to which I have been predisposed, is a feat I’ve not yet fully understood.
But I press on, from one day to the next, heedless and unceasing in my forward march. The question however has recently presented itself; to what end do I march? It used to be that the aim was to prove myself worthy; to exemplify all that I believed myself lacking, in order to attain her. While that story continues to be written, one page each day, I have yet to pin down or extract the exact means by which I will attain my success. I’ve accepted that while my prose might be enjoyable to all of you, to the mass audience I hope to reach is far too consumed with Twitter, Facebook posts, and other minutia to really invest themselves for any length of time in absorbing the meaning and forethought poured into every sentence prior to its birth on the page.
As my previous post noted, I’ve no intention of sacrificing length or substance simply to pander to the cretins that find themselves too embroiled in their own trite pursuits to actually enjoy writing they claim to be of a pleasing caliber. While I know that might seem like a seething attack on some, or an outright indictment and an admittance of my refusal to show understanding to the busy schedules of so many, I’d like to point out that amid the hustle and bustle of my day to day existence, I still manage to find time to author these pieces, and rest assured, the time is takes me to churn one of these out is roughly four to six times the length it takes the average reader to reach the final punctuation.
Having dispensed with the premises, updates, and gripes, I find myself unable to really put forth a concise (as my attempts as concise go) or focused string of prose together in order to argue any specific point. That is, my mind is somewhat fractured at the moment; a torrential and angry sea of ideas and notions, churning about violently, the ship of my consciousness set adrift amid the waves, with no clear heading. My thoughts center on the future, my future with her, will my prayers of holding her in my arms as my own ever be answered? My professional future, if I will ever find a way to be paid for putting my fingers and mind to work in a way to produces text? I need to make my life simple, to make the complications and complexities of my existence into something extraneous and negligible. I’m tired, I’m exhausted, and I need a break, from this life, these burdens, these arduous and trying tasks, but most of all, from being me.
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