An Epitaph

huh,
I betcha somma ya dawght I wuz ded?

Wrong!
I'm still here, alive and kicking. I took a little hiatus from the blog, to get new information, new insights, new knowledge from the HOBONETWORK, which is more powerful and deeper reaching than the SKEKSIE-NET. The Skeksie-net can most of the time carry incorrect or blatantly egregious information.

Well, I'm fine. I needed a break, and now I'm depressed over it all. I want there to be a world in which I can move through, feel my way through, and no. I just have my little world around me, which gets smaller and smaller. Today, it's choking me. I feel myself breaking inside, fraying at the ends. It's a lot of work being a shut in. Being me.

It's times like this that I find blogging to be beneficial. It keeps my head out of the oven, the knife from my hand, the muzzle from my mouth. IT lets me say my piece and get it off my chest, and tonight I have a big piece to get off of my chest. I'm growing sick of being broke and pinching pennies and living on a reduced lifestyle. I'm tired of being on social services and crawling on the ground to their wishes. I'm growing exasperated with this shit.

I'm supposed to go see my shrink today, but I'm not in the mood. I'm flat out not in the mood for doing anything. Other than vegetating. I'm pissed with myself that I have so little of an agenda. I had a bag of them earlier, and now I have none. I have to re-orient myself as to the direction that I need this life to take. I need to take stock in what I'm doing and to make changes that would make for personal happiness or else it's back onto the streets.

I've got to get my ass in some kind of gear and make a living out of living. Right now, I'm fucked.

God, nothing feels right to me now. Nothing.

I had a hard week coming up, and now an even harder one coming up on Halloween. I can't seem to get out of the way of my own skin. I'm rolling and rolling and rolling into myself and it's suffocating. I can't seem to fight my way out of a paperbag if it was wet and I had scissors in my hands. I'm a mess of a man, a hot mess. I don't know what to do any more . I have no guiding star, no rudder, no mast. I'm cast adrift on raging seas and I don't even have the strength to hold onto the raft any longer. I thought at one point that I had all of this solved. I thought that at one point I could FEEL the direction that I was going in, but now it's not true.

I am deaf, dumb and blind to my future.

But then again, who of us can divine our futures? Am I so alone in this that I don't know what my future holds? There was a time when I didn't care much. I just went along with the program. Now I want to write the script. Is this not being presumptuous? Who of us is out there making their own future? Or are they just living their lives the best that they know how? Are we all just working, and spending our occasional free time cleaning our houses and hanging out with friends and doing shit?

Isn't that what we are doing?? Why is this not enough for me? Why do I have to do more? Why can't I just get in with the groove, and do the thing. Get busy and be busy. Why do I need a future? What good has a future done for me? Fucking Future. I've looked around for it, but as soon as I find it, it becomes the present, only to turn into the past. Just that fast.

Maybe I'm getting old rapidly. I'm complaining that things on me are no longer working. How about my brain? That shit is corrupt as ever now. I can't remember shit. If all of this keeps up, there'll be nothing left of me in another five, six years. I would like to find certain things before I kick the bucket, like a new life for one. How about a new love? Someone to lust afterwards? I know about lust? Don't we all? How about a job and gainful employment? Maybe sell my book.

And then the story makes a complete U turn. I'm back to square one. Things suddenly click. I'm a writer and when I don't write, I feel lost. I feel as if everything is racing past me. I feel as if there is NO FUTURE. Without writing there is no future hope for me. Without dragging pen to paper, without sitting for hours before my computer pounding away on the keyboard, I have nothing at all to talk about, to dream about, to think about. I have nothing. I am lost and alone without goal or aim. I am completely defeated in this life without writing. I am a writer, and this is what I strive to be. I work at it, hone it, form and shape it. I take it seriously, and look for constructive criticism. I would like to get one shot at the big lights, and to do that, I have to keep on writing. Keep on cranking out prose until I fill the earth with it and it can no longer be contained.

I am a writer first. All other considerations are secondary.

Hobobob