Day to day slingin’. Nothing else kickin’.
As much as I hate to post this dribble, I feel as though it is something that I simply cannot help but do. The blessed few that choose to actually follow this blog would roll their eyes at the sight of another ‘Can’t get my shit together’ post. But at least they would silently congratulate me within their own minds for not using some tacky song lyrics that relate to the topic of post. That was some ‘teen on Facebook’ shit right there.
For the past few years now, I have found myself beaten into a fixed state of same. Stirred along within a seemingly omnipotent cocktail of boredom, longing and an adamant sense of meaninglessness. It’s like ever since I reached a particular age, something just flicked the kill switch on my enthusiasm and motivation, my sense of humour and accompanying ability to laugh, leaving me as a generally withdrawn ‘master of disguise’. Because I bet that nobody that knows me in person has the slightest clue that I am quite possibly the most empty feeling people in their lives.
It all sorta went downhill after my fourth year in high school. I was a generally happy dude, too. Rather extraverted, to be completely honest. If there ever was a party or a social event planned amongst the friend-os, 90% of the time it was I who had cooked it all up. And because of that particularly likeable image of a past self worth liking, I would often compare my current self at any given point in time to that, with the accompanying self questioning of where everything went so wrong. And honestly, even to this day, I still don’t have the answers.
But now, a new question has arose alongside those previous queries; “Do I really need the answers at all?”
I can imagine that dwelling on this would be relatively unhealthy no matter how I look at it. And part of me feels that even if I did have the answers, I would still feel as empty as I normally do. There is simply no going back. Those old friendships, that old way of living … they’re pieces that simply do not fit into the metaphorical puzzle. Wearing the same old leather jacket comes without it’s original meaning, washed away by the waves of change.
It’s a war within the self, I tell you. Two sides with their each ambiguous question;
“I want to go back. Why can’t I go back?”
“I want to move on. Why can’t I move forward?”
I fear that the answers may be as simple as this; I cannot go back because I am meant to move forward. But I cannot move forward because I want to go back.