I haven’t been blogging lately, or doing much of anything to be honest. This is very remiss of me. I’ll try better.

Today I’ve been musing over this song – Sophie B. Hawkins’ The One You Have Not Seen.

And of the dreams inside you, I am the one you have not seen

My thoughts have been preoccupied with the unseen lately. I’ve been strolling through this town looking for some strand of narrative thread that holds this town together, that makes it make some sense. Somehow. Or just looking for some inspiration. I want to create something. But what? That is the dilemma.

I’ve also been reading up at a website titled The Meanings Of Life. To me, in this moment, life has no clear rhyme or reason about it. Meanings where they exist are created (by individuals and traditions), not uncovered. I am without direction and without purpose. I wish there was some cosmic flashing neon sign in the sky telling me where to go and what to do. But that is just me being indecisive and shirking my responsibilities, I suppose. I watch Sunday Arts from time to time with a great sense of envy. I watch artists just have an impulse and they follow it down a rabbit hole of possibilities and just see where they end up. How I long to do that too. I want to be infatuated with a subject matter. I want to develop a discipline. I want to produce and showcase works of some description. I want to be an artist. Is that a lofty aspiration? Lots of people in my life have indicated it is. And yet I remain so desperately unhappy that it seems stupid not to at least try something that might resonate with me, even momentarily.

It always feels a bit presumptuous to include something here that isn’t part of the public record, but I can’t find the words to encapsulate my situation quite as well as this passage from a letter someone wrote me in 2004.

You’ve lost your sense of adventure, dude! I don’t know whether something as stereotypically “adventurous” as travelling would be an appropriate suggestion – although it well might be [...] – but either you’re not dreaming much anymore, or you’re just not telling anyone about it.

What is the point in dreaming? Everything seems to come crashing down sooner or later, anyway. I have a chip on my shoulder the area of which is, say, approximately 186.68 square kilometres. (If ever there was an obscure passive aggressive remark to be proud of, that must be it.) You know as I sit here writing now all I can hear in my head is Tori Amos’ Things Fuck Up Sometimes improv. But then she stopped half way through the song, had a moment of whimsy and picked up from where she left off. I on the other hand had a mid (quarter?) life crisis, left my job, and um… did whatever it was that I did for the last twelve months. Made some websites, recorded some videos, did a few podcasts, I guess. I wasn’t thrilled by the state of my life. I wasn’t crazy about my job, particularly. But there was one lone beacon in the distance that made everything kind of seem worthwhile. But it was a mirage, a beautiful mirage. Lee Stringer gave an interview to Andrew Denton about his writing and his cocaine addiction and he said that after his father and brother died he just lost the will to even pretend that life would somehow reward him if he played along. And that is what it was like for me too. I literally drove to work one morning and (in my car) screamed at the universe. I said, “I have never asked you for anything but this… You and I are through, we’re done. I’m not going to play anymore.” (It is one of the most irreconcilable parts of my makeup; a belief that God probably doesn’t exist, that predestination probably isn’t true while somehow being convinced there is something out there, somewhere, pulling the strings and a general feeling of being cursed.)

So, fine, I’ll own it. I opted out of my life. I mean what has the universe done for me lately, you know?!

Maybe I’m not supposed to be happy.

Intellectually I know setbacks are a part of life. There are books and podcasts and videos in my arsenal with people talking about their creative – and life – struggles. There is nothing particularly special or different about me. I just don’t know if I have what it takes to try. Even now I do sometimes dream, but each time there is a part of my psyche that goes, “Wouldn’t that be great, but I can’t do that. I’ll fall on my face. I’m not good enough, talented enough, creative enough…” Although I rarely actually articulate those thoughts. Instead I go and eat too much or sleep in the hopes that the impulse is gone by the time I wake up. I don’t have any worth. I don’t even pretend anymore. I have lost the will to even try to keep up that facade. I don’t want to live this way, but I don’t know how to change this. I actually really want to believe in some benevolent force in the world because it would make it easier to try. Because, fuck, that is all I really want at this point – some support. I want to feel like I matter. I want to feel as though the things I do matter. I want a sense that I’m not alone and that somebody has my back. What I do feel is that nobody cares, that I’m not important, and that there is a seemingly-revolving door of people in my life. People just aren’t there one day and I’ll probably never know why and it breaks my heart.