Yup I’m just pouring it on now. I’m shooting my way out of this one.
It’s a little bit hard to accept the show is over, that it’s time to pack away your things and shuffle off quietly.
But I don’t hang around where I’m not wanted. I’ve faced uncertainty before, knowing there’s somewhere I can be and just dwell for my own entertainment.
Yeah so, get on the Romantech blog, hold onto it like I dear freind with which I have been reunited. Maybe only in these moments of uncertainty can we truly find ourselves, because I hoped to see myself more clearly in a guilded mirror bought with success, and I would puff my chest out, and feel truly amongst the best, or that I had risen to meet my expectations
Or did my expectations move?
Don’t I want to be a silly DJ and do all those things I dreamed of, do I not think that’s good enough anymore?
I don’t really want to be respected for my art, I don’t even respect myself. I’ve got to find a way to like myself again. What kind of loser can only like the version of himself that is rolling around on a six figure income?
I don’t even need all that money I’m just gripped by some kind of need, I’m still trying to work out what it is . . .
ahh curse this unwanted holiday, I think I’m just stuck in a maze going around and around trying to get out. Please don’t make me go back to internet dating, good god.
I think at the end of all this is a quest to become a real person. Sitting there realising that none of the things I wanted were going to make me happy because at the very least, it would be too late.
Too late for some immature childish dreams to impress myself with.
None of the toys I want to buy myself, perhaps even the art I always held in esteem, maybe it wan’t about that. It’s just about being able to walk out your front door knowing the things you can control are in control, and that you accept who you are.
Dreams are just dreams, they shouldn’t be torture. You gotta appreciate reality, and the real person not only that you are but in all reality, who you could be.
It’s not an easy read. I cannot tell you why. Because each story cuts me to the bone.
Yes, you see each chapter is a story, of a writer for an international newspaper in Rome. And in between is the history of the paper, how it got started, how it evolved. And the stories seem benign until the very end, when there’s a twist and a turn, not unbelievable, but true to life, just like my life, and I’m floored. Because right there on the page is something I experienced. Maybe literally. But oftentimes, it’s just an emotion.
Ever hold someone on a pedestal? For years? And then finally realize that you were wrong all along?
Or how about being involved with someone too good for you, too beautiful, too young, too rich…knowing at some point it’s going to end, and it does.
And what is it you’re trying to achieve. Do you desire to be average, does anybody truly desire that, or do you accede to it, or are you shooting for the stars? That question is answered too. Well, maybe not answered, that’s the weird thing about life, there are very few answers, but turned over, examined, to the point you get creeped out because you realize you’re living now, but you’re gonna die soon, forgotten by everyone except a few, who will ultimately die too.
I read a great review of the second “Sex and the City” movie. No, it wasn’t a positive review, everyone who wrote about the movie said it was trash, but something was said in this review that has stuck with me. The writer said the new film was lacking because the TV series was sad, had moments of sadness, and this movie does not.
Isn’t that life. We don’t get it much in modern art. People don’t do sadness anymore. It connotes losing. And if you even profess doubts, never mind actually lose, you’re kicked to the curb these days. We’ve only got time for winners.
And it’s not that we’re all losers, but each of our lives has moments of sadness. For some, it plays out on the world stage. For most it’s private. We don’t want to let it leak out. We’re mortified. We get up our gumption and soldier on, but it’s difficult.
