i am broke. i am broken. i find myself involved in one of those secret crises that we tend to go through before a complete meltdown. the kind you don't speak of, that you try to ignore. it is a trial of the mind and spirit, known only to the host. it is the unspoken breakdown. the hidden entanglement. like muted emergency sirens on the way to a catastrophe. and that catastrophe is me.
i have no idea what I'm doing or where im going or why im going there. im grinding away aimlessly, poor, wanting, still wearing the residue of adolescence. ideas taking too long to come to fruition. sawing away with dull ambitions. a 33 year old man with crows feet blooming from his eyes and skin thats getting leathery from all the whiskey and cigarettes. a 33 year old man toiling about with a lot of heart and no real purpose.
and the economy. we all bear the burden of it. im not the only one with problems. my close friend is broke too. so broke it even hurts for her to moan about it anymore. so broke it is no longer a novelty to be celebrated. no longer a clever illusion that just further defines her as an artist. its not a confident actuality anymore, something to say while she smiles and swigs her bottomless glass of wine. it is the near terminal truth. a chilling fact of desperation that now blares out, obvious, no longer hidden beneath the tough skin of the city. it is an open sore, wet and infected and filled with shame and hurt. but like me, she keeps slaving along. what else are we to do? its almost as hard to sink as it is to stay afloat. getting ahead seems like a thing they only do on tv.
in all elements and in every battle, im finding myself at odds. i try to distract myself from it all. i sit at the computer and let myself get lost. on the internet in gossip sites and porno and other peoples blogs. by nicotine fixes and the thirst for a drink. i let my wandering eye distract me. i let the traffic outside distract me. i pet my cats and i wash the dishes. i write with pen in a journal instead of typing it out on a keyboard. i make the bed. i roll another cigarette. i chat with friends and other friends and some friends i hardly even know. i sit and stare into space and pretend for a second that i am someone else. that i am a better me. i beat myself up for beating myself up so much. i get distracted by another drink.
i do anything i can to escape from what it is i should be doing. because i dont know what im doing anymore. im writing a story and im reading a book and im dating a girl and im djing regularly and im getting good grades and im keeping my job and im downloading new music so i can stay close to the biz. but i no longer even know why im doing it. ive run out of clues. the bread trail went dry. all the warranties on my ideas have expired. i just dont know whats next.
i know this is a bummer post, but its all i have in me right now, and its all ive had in me for a while. it just seems like this funk wont fade. this cancerous mood, this growing unhappiness. the record industry is failing. my undergrad will get me nowhere. the bar is slow so i have no money. all i do is work and for little return. my emotions are a tangle and ive gotten so lost and disconnected that the comforting solace that grounds me has left my girlfriend isolated. and these are the decisions ive made. and these times are the consequences of them.