I want to write. No…write doesn’t begin to cover it. I want to create. I want the ability to take the emotions out of my head and put them on paper. Sometimes in a song, sometimes a picture, …a book. What would happen if I could do that? Would I be famous…known the world over? Change lives and hearts. I think about this and the realization dawns on me that I am not special! I hear it from so many people that I know if the feeling isn’t universal, then it’s pretty dang close. We all have something to say, something that we feel and believe so deep inside ourselves that it’s as real and tangible as an arm or a leg. It’s cliché, but true. We all have a song (…or book, or poem) inside of us.
It’s all about sacrifice. How many nights have I stayed awake? Desperately groping for the elusive unconsciousness. Sometimes, in those moments I have such a crystal lucidity. In that somewhat altered state of consciousness, the veil of confusion that clouds my waking mind and restricts access to the secrets I hold inside of me lifts. I feel something…something perfect. It’s more than that, though. The feeling is not always pleasant. Sometimes it’s accompanied by tears, sometimes a wry smile, and sometimes it is every bit as alone as I am. The perfection in that moment is that I KNOW. I know how I feel and WHAT I feel. I can pinpoint exactly how I am feeling, and the miracle of that moment is that I can find exactly the right words to express that feeling! They flow from my heart to my mind to my mouth with such perfect precision it’s as if I have always been able to articulate so clearly. However, the perfection of that moment is always spoiled by the imperfection. How dare these thoughts and this crystalline clarity invade my attempts at slumber? I never get out of bed to capture my thoughts. I never write them down or record them in any way. I simply go to sleep, planning and scheming about what tomorrow will be like. I will put those thoughts into action. Tomorrow. I will sacrifice anything…everything…to make it happen. Tomorrow. What have I sacrificed today? Nothing. I don’t even get out of bed. That 20 minute monologue where I clearly and (may I say, quite movingly) expressed my heartbreak to Alicia over her decision? It’s nothing but a whisper in the wind. Useless, stupid, inadequate. Instead of capturing the wondrously unadulterated freedom that came with the expression of my true feelings, I wallowed in my bed. A tear shed for the simplicity and candor of my message, and then I drifted off to sleep. Deeply, but fleetingly escaping the pain I feel as it is swallowed up by the false satisfaction manufactured by my dream.
Writing is something that has always come easily to me. Sacrificing everything…anything for my words, has not. I live a cozy life. I don’t want for food or shelter or warmth. I sleep when I want to and have a car to get where I need to go. How much sleep have I lost in the pursuit of the sublime? NOT NEARLY ENOUGH. Instead, like most people out there, I am content to plagiarize the emotions of someone else. I piggyback on songs, books, and movies. Letting the actors pretend to portray the emotions that I myself am faking. Finding my voice in a song that I never wrote. It’s not enough anymore. I crave the joy of SELF expression. I am tired of being expressed by others.
Ultimately I feel the deep and driving desire to open myself up. Whether it be to criticism or understanding…probably both…it doesn’t matter. I have lived the private life for so long now. This is me, for anyone who cares to look. The crazy, cocksure, cockeyed, confused, creature that I am. Apologies to my family who chose to read this. You don’t know me, it’s mostly my fault.
