An empty, crushed peanut shell. Today is one of those days I wish I could stand on the surface of the moon; not for the sake of being able to say "I've been on the moon," or, "Fuck you, Armstrong." Rather, it's an isolationist thing. I would like to stand somewhere that guarantees me complete isolation and a feeling that this isolation will not fade in the coming hours. A funny thing has happened inside me since October first and it's something I still puzzle over; something I poke at here or there and never can clearly leave the fuck alone. Obviously, I am not happy.
So, what is it? Well, my creativity is almost completely dead. I don't even feel anything on that side of my brain anymore. I feel only partial interest in "Dead Animals" and even that is dying, too. This is a very alarming reality since, in late October, I abandoned my self-imposed creative goals for the calendar year for 2006. I don't draw anymore; I don't paint; I hardly write. It's scary to me. I abandoned my goals because all kinds of shit was happening to me and my wife, most of them thanks to Shannon. The creative needs in me were driving me crazy. They made me swell with self-loathing because I simply wasn't producing. So, for the sake of self-preservation, I abandoned them. For several weeks, that felt fine. Now, I'm disappointed in myself. How quickly we abandon what truly is valuable in life. I was a chicken shit. It's too late now. I can only hope and see what I may bring to the table come 2007. I'm not going to even bother to cross my fingers.
I don't like my life right now. The drastic changes have made me blue. It is something I am constantly fighting. The moon looks more tempting each and every night. But, to take flight is to give up; to take the coward's trail. I've never wanted to be like that, but I admit that the need is strong in me. My wife, who remains the center of this volatile change, suggested to me that I take off somewhere, spend time alone for whatever reason. The irony is that I have been more alone these past several months than I've ever been with Shannon. A change in location will amount to jack shit in the process. I'd just end up lonely in a lonely place. Just like being on the moon. It's a tempting proposition only for the possibility of fading away; of disappearing.
There is only so much that words can do. They can behave like Band-Aids: good for minor problems, but useless on something bigger. All I've really been getting lately is words. But, the wound isn't healing. The damage is turning green and filling with puss. An infection has settled in and all the fucking Band-Aids in the world are useless. I'm tired and weary of constantly holding back something big and relentless that is trying to get in; of beating back the scrambling seeds of destruction looking for fertile ground.
What am I to do? Well, there's only one thing I can do: rely only upon myself and shoulder on forward, hoping the load will get easier. I've communicated much to loved ones, but they have their own problems. In truth, I don't really care for their opinions right now. Maybe the moon's siren song will fade. Maybe I'll finally stop hating myself. Maybe someone will genuinely hold interest in trivial aspects of my life; care for how exactly I'm doing and not zone out while I talk (or, worse, have an answer already prepared; a little consideration before talking speaks volumes, you know?) Or, maybe, finally, words will fall by the wayside and actions alone will come to me, giving me strength. Maybe maybe maybe... Yeah, maybe. Just maybe. Hang my hat on maybe. Leap off Mt. Maybe and then look. Maybe maybe maybe...
So, what is it? Well, my creativity is almost completely dead. I don't even feel anything on that side of my brain anymore. I feel only partial interest in "Dead Animals" and even that is dying, too. This is a very alarming reality since, in late October, I abandoned my self-imposed creative goals for the calendar year for 2006. I don't draw anymore; I don't paint; I hardly write. It's scary to me. I abandoned my goals because all kinds of shit was happening to me and my wife, most of them thanks to Shannon. The creative needs in me were driving me crazy. They made me swell with self-loathing because I simply wasn't producing. So, for the sake of self-preservation, I abandoned them. For several weeks, that felt fine. Now, I'm disappointed in myself. How quickly we abandon what truly is valuable in life. I was a chicken shit. It's too late now. I can only hope and see what I may bring to the table come 2007. I'm not going to even bother to cross my fingers.
I don't like my life right now. The drastic changes have made me blue. It is something I am constantly fighting. The moon looks more tempting each and every night. But, to take flight is to give up; to take the coward's trail. I've never wanted to be like that, but I admit that the need is strong in me. My wife, who remains the center of this volatile change, suggested to me that I take off somewhere, spend time alone for whatever reason. The irony is that I have been more alone these past several months than I've ever been with Shannon. A change in location will amount to jack shit in the process. I'd just end up lonely in a lonely place. Just like being on the moon. It's a tempting proposition only for the possibility of fading away; of disappearing.
There is only so much that words can do. They can behave like Band-Aids: good for minor problems, but useless on something bigger. All I've really been getting lately is words. But, the wound isn't healing. The damage is turning green and filling with puss. An infection has settled in and all the fucking Band-Aids in the world are useless. I'm tired and weary of constantly holding back something big and relentless that is trying to get in; of beating back the scrambling seeds of destruction looking for fertile ground.
What am I to do? Well, there's only one thing I can do: rely only upon myself and shoulder on forward, hoping the load will get easier. I've communicated much to loved ones, but they have their own problems. In truth, I don't really care for their opinions right now. Maybe the moon's siren song will fade. Maybe I'll finally stop hating myself. Maybe someone will genuinely hold interest in trivial aspects of my life; care for how exactly I'm doing and not zone out while I talk (or, worse, have an answer already prepared; a little consideration before talking speaks volumes, you know?) Or, maybe, finally, words will fall by the wayside and actions alone will come to me, giving me strength. Maybe maybe maybe... Yeah, maybe. Just maybe. Hang my hat on maybe. Leap off Mt. Maybe and then look. Maybe maybe maybe...