So far I doubt that anyone has this kind of consistency, I do believe that no one possess so much excuses as I do in my arsenal. I stopped counting the times I came and went, no wonder my mind feels like whisper of an echo, just a subtle brush on others shoulders, that fades back into nothingness same as a spark of a brittle idea, wasted into the ether of the current atmosphere. I do not believe I will ever regain the strength lost, as it never felt like my own in the first place. It is hard, for someone who thought about death for so long to find reason to live now. How can I, as I can not shake this feeling I am wasting my life in someone else’s place, as if I took a place from a viable soul who would live it better then me. I ask you, how does one get rid of the gilt of living? How does one justify the poor actions taken, the unworthy life lived? I’ve spent the majority of my existence thinking of life, too preoccupied or scared of actually living it. It is in our human nature to question one’s existence, but what if we dwell too deep into that philosophical cave and lose our way? I’ve been grasping for ground for so long in that deep dark of mind and thoughts, that I’ve forgotten the light. For the past few months I’ve spent self-analyzing more then usual, assessing was it all worth it, did I really waste life or did I actually make something worth living? Should I really summarize? I always had stories in me, be it taught from my own bad decisions or my own life stupidity, I created worlds and characters I never felt were worth sharing, somehow I am still not certain they are, but until few years back I picked up this laptop and writing every day, surprised with my own efforts and consistency, I created my first story, which came to be “The Lonesome Road”. Sure it had it’s imperfections and I knew it was no groundbreaking event in publishing nor perhaps it was good to start with, but it was mine, something I created with my two hands and this shattered mind that somehow in something found purpose. From then I started writing more, creating this, “The Word Den”, a way for an introvert who hated to connect to actually attempt that, to find like minded individuals and to perhaps find his place in the world. Surprise, it was difficult to even achieve that as I still don’t know how, but then again I tried, posted and interacted, continued to write, writing another book and even make several other projects. What’s the point of this, so called repeat interaction I offer you, months after months end, you may ask, haven’t we been here before, wasn’t this the same dance we lead time after time? Perhaps… But now I stand before, more vulnerable then ever. I quit my job, the same one I was stuck in almost 10 years now, achieving nothing, telling myself this is the most I can do for my life. I took a risk which I now doubt will it ever pay off. But that is of no interest to our current predicament. For almost two years, I brought to you, the few who actually read this, the so called “Process of writing”, where I pulled the thoughts out of mind and put them to this digital paper for all to see, some to find themselves in, others to understand, or even to engage in a discussion. So where am I getting with this? No, this is not an attempt to judge my feats, no matter how few or many, or the quality of them. It’s a new leaf I am turning, one with the same mindset, same gripping feeling on my stomach, but yet I will try to, muster against the feeling of the impending dread and push through the illusive tears of my self pity, and attempt as a writer to ask the question of mind, soul and heart. Can what is broken be remade whole once more?
Digging a grave
Can something that was lost be found? Can hope that never truly existed in our minds be caught, even a shimmer, a slight glimpse, is all we need, to give strength to a dying body, the living carcass that wobbles and strives through this world? Over dramatic or too edgy? Perhaps… Or is it just a good way to prove a point? I vote for the latter. I mentioned the metaphor of being too afraid to live. And that is not an overreaction nor a misused connotation. It is a grim reality of mind, for people who lived and experienced a different kind of life. We all wear scars, you heard that one before right? Well different situations, different conflicts breed scars of different size. Some you witness, as some we carry on our bodies, be it literal scars or bruises, but some linger, longer and deeper, which we do not share with anyone. Not completely. Never completely. We might tell our story, as you listen, make you feel like you were there, but never will we release that feeling we witnessed, as it’s etched deep into our core, that fear, helplessness, the immobility of our body, heart and soul as we witnessed our own life sinking deeper and deeper towards the darkness. For those who understand that feeling, I ask, is there a way out? They say time is the great healer of wounds, the forgiver of memories. Yet we, the careful watchers of that feeling that still sits deep inside, brewing in our minds, we well know that time does make you forget. It bleaches the pictures we grip in our heart, but never would we let ourselves forget. And that is why it is hard to move on, that is the sole reason of that difficult path that we call peace. As it is the only reward our soul yearns, the only thing that is elusive, seemingly unobtainable, yet the only wish we posses. Hard is the path for it, as we walk with the only person who posses the image, the dreadful sensation, true feeling of our pain, ourselves. No one better, no one more fit, to judge us, remind and pull down. Trauma, no matter what kind or how big or small, never goes away. There are just good days, bad days, and even worse ones. It is a thing that never fades as every day is a battle. The point is not to win the war. But not to lose the battle. As you battle from day in and day out. So knowing that, with the constant reminders living and breathing down our necks, the question remains, how to live? Is there a formula, a chart of sorts to navigate life after you thought it was thrown away? Not really, unfortunately. But even if there was, should you listen to a guy who is consistent as much as rain in scorching summer? Of course not, even I would be the first to admit that advice from a stranger is one thing that pisses me off. Not because they don’t make sense, oh far from it, it is my own inability to take that advice to heart and applying it that makes me angry. So, just to be clear, hear the advice, choose carefully, and act accordingly. Don’t believe what every stranger online preaches, that why I hate today’s “life” coaches who act as if they have a clue what they saying so they preach toxic masculinity bullshit and get rich fast like me crap. But those things are a topic for a different day. So past through what a stranger here is trying to say or what picture he is attempting to paint, rather hear the question I ask to you all, my few of the many. If one spends his life or a good portion of it digging a grave with the tombstone of his name written on, can that one remember or better yet learn how to live? Is trauma this great shadow that is meant to loom over us all, or perhaps like all shadows cast by the sun, it is meant to merely follow our footsteps, as a brutal reminder that every time we turn our heads back we never forget? Be it as it may be, perhaps the more important question we have to pose to ourselves is not how, but rather why? Guilt is a tremendous burden that crushes even the strongest amongst us, so perhaps while skimming with our bowed look to others, much stronger who fail, we shouldn’t get discouraged by self questioning how could we make it if “better” of us failed, but rather propose the more avoided summoning of why not? I wrote a lot about this in my book “The Lonesome Road”, where you can see the bitterness seeping through the main character until the end where he finally starts to realize and dare to open himself to other possibilities of life. I would dare to say while writing him, I grew as well. In there he asks a question I battled with for a long time, does everyone deserve happiness? And to me that really correlates with the answer we are trying to find here. Is happiness something that is deserved, a quest like many other, worked towards? Or perhaps is more innate, programmed in your core, on the same level as the gift of life, something that is given to each and every one of us, the lucky few who drew breath, now confused and dazzled by the endless possibilities that this plane of existence dares to offer just if we dare to stop and listen, comforted with the notion of the thought that happiness, after all for even us, somewhere there exists. So what is the answer, you might ask? I admit, that after all of that thinking and falling, some rising, I still do not posses it. But that is the point is it not? The point never was to give out answers, but to motivate seeking them, sharing in hopes that we, as flawed humans, some broken, some less, but in the end all the same, might find the answer that will heal the soul that still bleeds, heart that aches and the mind that after all those things survived, still yearns for what really matters. Peace.
time is the great mind killer
Can something that was lost be found? Can hope that never truly existed in our minds be caught, even a shimmer, a slight glimpse, is all we need, to give strength to a dying body, the living carcass that wobbles and strives through this world? Over dramatic or too edgy? Perhaps… Or is it just a good way to prove a point? I vote for the latter. I mentioned the metaphor of being too afraid to live. And that is not an overreaction nor a misused connotation. It is a grim reality of mind, for people who lived and experienced a different kind of life. We all wear scars, you heard that one before right? Well different situations, different conflicts breed scars of different size. Some you witness, as some we carry on our bodies, be it literal scars or bruises, but some linger, longer and deeper, which we do not share with anyone. Not completely. Never completely. We might tell our story, as you listen, make you feel like you were there, but never will we release that feeling we witnessed, as it’s etched deep into our core, that fear, helplessness, the immobility of our body, heart and soul as we witnessed our own life sinking deeper and deeper towards the darkness. For those who understand that feeling, I ask, is there a way out? They say time is the great healer of wounds, the forgiver of memories. Yet we, the careful watchers of that feeling that still sits deep inside, brewing in our minds, we well know that time does make you forget. It bleaches the pictures we grip in our heart, but never would we let ourselves forget. And that is why it is hard to move on, that is the sole reason of that difficult path that we call peace. As it is the only reward our soul yearns, the only thing that is elusive, seemingly unobtainable, yet the only wish we posses. Hard is the path for it, as we walk with the only person who posses the image, the dreadful sensation, true feeling of our pain, ourselves. No one better, no one more fit, to judge us, remind and pull down. Trauma, no matter what kind or how big or small, never goes away. There are just good days, bad days, and even worse ones. It is a thing that never fades as every day is a battle. The point is not to win the war. But not to lose the battle. As you battle from day in and day out. So knowing that, with the constant reminders living and breathing down our necks, the question remains, how to live? Is there a formula, a chart of sorts to navigate life after you thought it was thrown away? Not really, unfortunately. But even if there was, should you listen to a guy who is consistent as much as rain in scorching summer? Of course not, even I would be the first to admit that advice from a stranger is one thing that pisses me off. Not because they don’t make sense, oh far from it, it is my own inability to take that advice to heart and applying it that makes me angry. So, just to be clear, hear the advice, choose carefully, and act accordingly. Don’t believe what every stranger online preaches, that why I hate today’s “life” coaches who act as if they have a clue what they saying so they preach toxic masculinity bullshit and get rich fast like me crap. But those things are a topic for a different day. So past through what a stranger here is trying to say or what picture he is attempting to paint, rather hear the question I ask to you all, my few of the many. If one spends his life or a good portion of it digging a grave with the tombstone of his name written on, can that one remember or better yet learn how to live? Is trauma this great shadow that is meant to loom over us all, or perhaps like all shadows cast by the sun, it is meant to merely follow our footsteps, as a brutal reminder that every time we turn our heads back we never forget? Be it as it may be, perhaps the more important question we have to pose to ourselves is not how, but rather why? Guilt is a tremendous burden that crushes even the strongest amongst us, so perhaps while skimming with our bowed look to others, much stronger who fail, we shouldn’t get discouraged by self questioning how could we make it if “better” of us failed, but rather propose the more avoided summoning of why not? I wrote a lot about this in my book “The Lonesome Road”, where you can see the bitterness seeping through the main character until the end where he finally starts to realize and dare to open himself to other possibilities of life. I would dare to say while writing him, I grew as well. In there he asks a question I battled with for a long time, does everyone deserve happiness? And to me that really correlates with the answer we are trying to find here. Is happiness something that is deserved, a quest like many other, worked towards? Or perhaps is more innate, programmed in your core, on the same level as the gift of life, something that is given to each and every one of us, the lucky few who drew breath, now confused and dazzled by the endless possibilities that this plane of existence dares to offer just if we dare to stop and listen, comforted with the notion of the thought that happiness, after all for even us, somewhere there exists. So what is the answer, you might ask? I admit, that after all of that thinking and falling, some rising, I still do not posses it. But that is the point is it not? The point never was to give out answers, but to motivate seeking them, sharing in hopes that we, as flawed humans, some broken, some less, but in the end all the same, might find the answer that will heal the soul that still bleeds, heart that aches and the mind that after all those things survived, still yearns for what really matters. Peace.
The Word Den 