disynthetic

The sky looks like smoke, today. Then again, maybe it looks more like the single-color canvas of an avant garde painter flaunting his inaccessibly vapid message, and he is brimming with satisfaction for the "cleverness" of it. Rather like the prior sentence, the creator often works to serve themselves rather than the individuals who may read these words. Writing serves no purpose if it reaches no one. To reach someone is not to have witness, rather, it is to be understood. However, it would be far worse if my writing could not even reach me.

It never occurred to me to write anything other than my judgments of people. Places. Things. I imagine I must be avoiding scrutiny by way of displacing attention. It distracts others, this is true, but it is not so obvious that it also distracts me from noticing such unnecessary behavior. It is as mature as the little boy caught making mischief, who cries, "They're doing it, too!" Were such childishness capable of washing away blame and acquitting a "boy" of his guilt, one would only have to ask any little boy if it were actually plausible, and they would discern the truth of it. I digress. This is not a negative discourse, and I feel hopeful and relaxed as I compose it.

The motivation to write has for a long time now, been incited only by an need to share my opinion on a topic, to rant on a frustrating event, or to vent my emotion pertaining to confusion in my life. I just now realized that I have not once, not ever, written for the purpose of entertaining the person who reads it. My catalyst has always been self-serving. It would seem that I have only ever written to amuse myself in some way, or to flex my meager, prosaic skill set--my writing has always been to impress someone else and in turn, satisfy some need to prove something. In following that line of thinking it seems logical that I endure a deep insecurity about my self-worth and that I constantly work to sabotage any attainment of knowing it, with every self-loathing step I take. For whatever reason, it would seem that I hate myself. I seem to believe this, judging from the consequences of every denial-induced action I take.

Every blind-eye turned, every scenario, has brought me to realize that I am living in a destructive cycle that wounds every person I have known, do know, and will someday know, until I cease doing things with the right intention, but the wrong method.

I know this may be incomprehensible language and that the meaning possibly hieroglyphic. However, that doesn't negate the necessity of it. Consider this a journal. I only share it--this time--because this place--this forum--is the only one in which I--finally--feel uninfluenced by fear of judgment and unmitigated by a feeling of self-enforced censorship, that might keep me from saying something 100% real. For once I understand things the way they are. That is a good feeling, when you live with a persistent uncertainty for every experience.

Far be it from me--hat was not sarcasm--to continue as a jaded cynic that is caustic to be kind--to himself, mostly--, because I am now quite repulsed by feeling (and looking) like a hugely self-absorbed prick. I always worked to keep up the appearance of someone who is the antithesis of prick-dom. But what you see and what you get are not always copacetic with each other, as the clich goes. I always hoped that I would finally get some insight into the reasons I do the things I do. Well, bingo. I had to know it wouldn't be pretty... or easy.

I take it retract an earlier statement: this has un-become being a journal. It is more fitting as a confession.