the lies I live in

It's been a tough go of it lately in dealing with my depressive feelings and it's made even more so by my recent introduction to a new job.

There's something disheartening about being unable to connect with other people the way I used to. All smiles, jokes and laughter -- I was proud of the way I handled myself and looked forward to spirited conversation with the nearest person I could find.

No longer.

It seems like I'm chasing a ghost these days. The more I slide off the peak of my moods, the more I dream of the past, the more sad I get.

Because I remember how it used to be. In the same sense that a widower might, having lost the one she loved.

In a way, I'm grieving. On occasion I pound with balled fists upon the chest of my seemingly dead self, hoping to bring it back to life once more -- and it just lies there, motionless and looking up at me with these cold, dead eyes that I'm afraid to peer into.

I'm reminded at the moment of how much I love my melodrama. It's suited me well in the past. Both with writing and in relationships. With my ability to exaggerate, I was able to leverage it into a talent for story telling and it also functioned as a means to hone the edge of my feelings. I would feel emotion more intensely than the average person would, and I'd revel in that.

And that melodrama hasn't quite died yet I don't think. I see it in the words I am typing at the moment, words I've typed elsewhere and the occasional joke that escapes my lips all are drenched in this secret sauce of mine. I look at the topic title for this post and go, "huh. that doesn't quite pertain to what I'm writing about, but maybe it will reach that conclusion at some point."

It just seems like I thrive on drama and I wonder if in a sense, that has been my undoing. In addition to the continued deterioration of my capacity to hear other people well to hold a stable conversation without having to strain at their words.

But if drama is the problem I'm facing. That incessant need for wanting to make more of something than there really is -- then what would I end up being without it?

A soulless husk. A shell.

Wouldn't I be?

There's always something sad to remark upon when hearing stories of people who have reached great heights, whether personal or outwardly in nature -- only to have fallen down to a pit that they don't seem able to extract themselves from. Our society enjoys a good, poignant drama involving the human condition and I am a more guilty victim of this than it seems most are.

It's not that I care so much about the triumphs and failures of celebrities that I'll never meet who I read about on the cover of gossip rags while waiting in line at the grocery store -- it's that I care about the people that are close to me. Every one of their triumphs is a bit of a triumph for myself. Every one of their failures, is something that I feel partially responsible and saddened by.

I think some would call this empathy, and if that's what my condition can be described as, then I wouldn't argue against this particular bit of judgement.

Except, I don't know if it was just empathy that has sustained me through the best and worst of times. I think it was more than just sympathy for my fellow man.

I think it was something along the lines of respecting the natural order of things and believing in it enough to feel inspired by it.

I think I just had a lot of faith in the notion of there being a spiritual democracy of sorts that governed the world and interactions at large. That we vote unconsciously towards the world we want to live in and that a governing body would tally up these ballots and implement the change we wish to see.

But as I get older, I'm starting to doubt the existence of such a system being in place.

Maybe that's what depresses me most. Knowing that all the faith I might have in the world, is all for naught. That faith is nothing more than wishful thinking and that my sphere of influence is so minuscule that I may well be rendered impotent.

When I was a wide-eyed child looking upon this world with equal parts fear, awe and respect; there was a good deal of obstacles that stood in the way of this view of mine. That we are all one and the rules are fair as well as being open to negotiation whether it be through prayer, or devotion towards a particular cause.

In short, I thought faith alone was all I really needed. To believe in myself and that I wouldn't get fucked over for any of it.

Well, the years have eroded away such a naive notion and has left me with a great deal of uncertainty.

One thing I am thankful for however, is that I can still write down my thoughts in a fair amount of illuminating detail. I can still write. But that muse.. the muse is about as fickle as a mistress in the best of times and as conspicuous as a shadow during the worst.

I NEED to finish my book. My novel is still sitting at around 200 pages on chapter 30 and it doesn't feel anything close to being finished.

It's already been a year and a half since I started writing it.

I've been going backwards instead of forwards, mainly because of how daunting a challenge it really is to write a book. There's no passion behind these fingers of mine at the moment and when I think about how I managed to write 200 pages in the first place -- I'm reminded that I was under pressure to perform.

Maybe that's the problem with me right now. I'm not pressuring myself enough. I like complaining and talking about "writing a novel" more so than actually doing it. But it's not like I don't think my book has a chance and should be tossed out with the trash; I really do think it has a good shot at becoming something quite compelling.

It's just that.. I've lost either faith in it, or .. No, I haven't lost faith if I'm still continuing to talk about it. No, I think I've only .. no, I haven't lost faith in myself either.. So what is it? What's causing this blockage of my imagination? Why is my will not being done?

Maybe because I'm scared. Scared that all that hard work is going to amount to nothing. That it won't be appreciated. It won't make any money. And all I'll have is 300-400 pages of drivel that I've spent over a year and a half worrying and talking about.

I don't know. Or maybe I'm just scared of the work involved because I'm not assured of what the results of finishing it would be.

I don't fucking know anymore.

It's amusing to me how much I've been typing in this blog post when I know that applying this same amount of effort towards the novel would yield more productive results.

But that's a question I wonder about. Maybe my inner-most thoughts need to be exposed, examined and written down first before I can move on with the book. Maybe self-examination is the key to discovering the enthusiasm I've been hoping to reclaim.

God damn is this ever hard to figure out.

What is this post? 1,100 words?

Could've been half of a chapter already.

It's Sunday night and I need to prepare myself for work tomorrow morning. Where I'll face the usual difficulties in connecting with others and continuing along with my sullen self, watching imagination evaporate as I rip off insulation from piping for ten hours in freezing weather.

There must be a better way.

I might find it just yet.

kathy.

I guess I kind of have to.

This is Kathy, whom I had a relationship with last year. That picture was taken in my car on the way home from the flea market we've left.

I got her that Domo doll.

I still miss her and I don't.

I wish things could have been different.

chillingly compelling

My mind is going off on one of it's moments of pure introspection at the moment, and as I am thinking, making several observations of my life; I'm realizing that these thoughts will remain vaporous and likely will be forgotten should I not write them down.

That's a sobering reality right there, writing stuff down is what makes my thoughts permanent. Which gives them substance, and allows for future extrapolation, expansion and exploration of these ideas I'm having.

Why can't I get that truth through my thick skull? Why has my creative processes dried up and my love of writing rusting itself over like a hammer left outside for several years?

And as I think about it, I'm realizing it has so much to do with fear. Being afraid of letting myself go head first into something that will consume my attention and passion -- but not guaranteeing the success of its reception, or achieving a sustainable living by it.

I think those are my biggest fears, wasting my time writing. People write every single day on blogs, twitter, Facebook, message boards, short stories, long stories, technical reports, essays and a few have even written entire books. Not just one, or two, but dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. Some of them do it while they work full time, some even become successful.

That's something which troubles me to no end. Knowing the difficulty in producing something meaningful and then not being assured of it's success. It's kind of like spending a year of your life building a canoe that you hope will take you to a destination far greater and prosperous than the space you are presently inhabiting, but not having a map to really know where you're going.

Writing professionally, has terrified me, resigned me and now appears to have disinterested me just because I now am fully aware of how incredibly difficult it would be to achieve something of merit given the tens of thousands of other people like me who are hoping for that same pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Who really gives a shit about what I think? That has been the driving mantra behind my stagnation this past year. Who would truly appreciate what I hope to accomplish by my work? And more importantly, can I craft something worthy of being inducted into the public consciousness? Can I produce something of merit?

Can I do it if I push myself as hard as humanly possible? Do I have it within me? Is there something inside that will switch on and create something amazing? Do I believe in myself enough to pull it off?

Can I ever pull it off?

And that is where my insecurities come to light. My weaknesses are raw and exposed whenever I entertain such notions. I'm reminded of the moments in my past where impulsive behaviour and good intentions resulted in the birth of a  monstrosity that I am ashamed to acknowledge.

I speak of the two manic episodes I've had in my life. But I am not sure if they are topics I wish to address in this post.

I spend a lot of time consuming books on achieving your potential, how to win friends & influence people. Hawaiian Shamanism. What The Bleep Do We Know? Promethesus Rising. The biography of Aleister Crowley and the Satanic Bible. I have recently picked up two books that have piqued my interest. One is a compilation of essays/stories by C.S. Lewis which deals in morality and the other is The Art of Mastery by Robert Greene.

Why am I troubling myself by continuing to read these books, hoping for some flash of insight that will glue together the broken pieces inside and make me whole  when I know that I already have the answers that I seek.

I already know what to do and yet I fail to do it.

Plato's dialogue on Menos expressed the idea of remembering what we have forgotten as far as the process of learning goes. He postulates the vastness of wisdom to exist in a nebulous realm that can be accessed by every man, woman and child. Some New Agers describe it as the Akashic Records, a repository of all that was and all that will be. Others slap the label intuition on and argue that our subconsciousness sometimes reaches informed conclusions faster than our rational minds can -- if we should trust and recognize such processes.

That's been a big problem for me, ever since having these two manic episodes to know exactly what is genuine, sincere intention acting on wisdom; and what is nothing more than a fanciful exaggeration of my ego.

It's been so hard trying to separate fact from fiction that I am bewildered by it to the point that being non-commital is easier than choosing a side.

But perhaps, we should take sides. No matter how much of reality is subjective, maybe drawing a line in the sand and abiding by certain principles is the most effective way to be.

I don't know and yet, somehow I do know.

Goddamn you Akashic Records. Floating up in space somewhere, holding all the keys to the locks that I can never figure out how to open.

There have been so many books out there, so many competing ideologies and doctorines and theories that it's difficult to figure out where to stand on any of these. Or if I should have to. But living the life I've lived for so long, should have taught me the necessity of sticking by principles and yet I fail to carry forth a personal philosophy that elevates my sense of hierarchy in this life.

I realize by now at this point, the most accurate truth I can feel confident enough in stating -- is that I absolutely know nothing.

No matter how much I learn about a subject, there will always be someone saying, "but what about this?" and presents an argument worth serious consideration. There will always be a principle or fact that can be called into question and argued for or against.

So with that in mind, how can I choose sides? Why should I have to choose anything?

I'm sure had I subjected this problem to some other thinkers, I will receive a number of responses that offer multiple perspectives but nothing that can universally be agreed upon.

Atheists these days will snort at the idea of there being a God while Christians defend their faith.

Agonistics are ridiculed for not choosing a side, while Paganists are laughed at.

The sky may be black right now above my head, but it's a blue, sunny color over in another part of the world.

String theory may or may not be viable. Simulation theory may or may not be viable.

Black holes contain universes which contain other univereses that go onward to infinity. Yet, science have yet to present conclusive evidence for or against the idea of infinity.

Love is this intangible emotion and carries with it so many meanings that it can be difficult to settle upon just one.

Others say that love is nothing more than instinctual conditioning and is produced by a chemical secreted inside of our minds.

Many people claim selfishness to be the greatest of all evils, others would pronounce ignorance, and still others will claim selfishness to be paramount and others will spout that ignorance is "bliss".

One thing for sure is, nobody has all the fucking answers. Or everybody does, yet choose to ignore them.

So what do I make of all this? Should I or should I not draw that moral line in the sand and live a principled and structured life adhering to convictions of mine which may or may not be correct?

One thing that I am curious about, is the necessity of having convictions. We absolutely need convictions, rock-hard truths that enable us to allay our feelings of doubt and helplessness.

In essence, we deeply desire and require the need to live a life that makes sense. Even if it's just to ourselves and not others.

Yet, convictions are a byproduct of faith. Faith is essentially a suspension of disbelief and it walks hand in hand with conviction without becoming mutually exclusive to one another.

We need faith to survive.

Yet, where should we place it? How will we know that a certain idea or thought deserves to take prominence within our lives?

That is the great mystery to me.

With that tangent having been played out, I must return to my original thoughts.

Can I produce something worthwhile that will benefit both myself, and others? Even if it's purely for entertainment purposes? A well-told story.

I don't know. But I really want to.

Two hundred plus pages of Puer Aueternus: The Electric Messiah sits quietly in the corner glaring at me with the white of its eyes.

I love maybe 40% of it. It's some of the best stuff I have ever written.

And it sits there, uncomplaining but neglected. Like a loving pet that you simply don't have time to give the attention it deserves.

That's where my shame comes from. Part of it anyways. And this emotion has me locked in a loop of negativity that is so difficult to break through from.

Because I don't know if it's worth pursuing.

I don't believe enough in myself to know that it's going to be great.

I'm too ashamed of myself to feel confidence. And too unintelligent to know how to change.

Or maybe I just haven't found a compelling enough reason to push myself forward. It would have to be something inspiring that transcends the need for money, or admiration.

God, I'm so close to figuring out what it might be, but I'm not really sure of it yet.

To give the book away for free has crossed my mind more than once. That is a painless and benevolent action on my part. To just let my words find the eyes that can appreciate them without the barrier of payment.

But I would still be working a shitty job and living a sad, lonely single life.

I don't want to give up. If I'm still reading self-help books, then I know there's still something inside of me that is fighting to be set free.

I'm just afraid of what that might be.