Deflated, Part II

Why do I keep going? Why must I keep trying?

This sense of obligation is so present that it’s domineering. It’s practically suffocating. I’m suffocating beneath this purpose.

I lay deep in this monster’s maw, trapped in the chasm again.

Did I ever escape? Given its lack of handles or rungs, I don’t think that I have.

This deprication is real–it’s pressing on sanctity–thus making the supposed

“beautiful person” inexplicably less; decreasing-

–ly less while increasing this foul sense of ugliness.

Pettiness seeps in.

Look, we know that none of this is real; that this wretchedness

(“All too perpetual,” says the voice which I’ve known for decades. Her voice fluctuates between sweet childishness and young adulthood. Whimsical. Her voice-call me Jasmine or Delilah, names aren’t identity– might be my Genuine Voice.)

What does that say about me, about us?

But I digress…

I realize that this “all too perpetual” voice is wretched and deceiving. It is a liar. The prince of lies. That it’s primarily fear masked in mental illness, self-doubt and physical pain, all of which originated and is perpetuated by the devil, intent on pulling us down; on destroying us in some dense, black haze (images of fiery damnation pervade.)  Most days, though, I cannot

escape it.

My gosh, my sweet Jesus, I hate this life sometimes. I loathe it. But I hate the enemy more, mostly for the vile tricks he takes pleasure in playing on humanity. We can question the rational of these actions, but the truth is, he can’t control himself. To do otherwise would be utterly uncharacteristic. He is, after all, only being himself.

He could change, just as every one of us has the innate ability to change. It’s called free will. I’m not laying the blame on him. I am not. We can either give up, do nothing, or we can choose to fight, despite evidence to the contrary. Don’t let evil temptations deter you. Other factors will try to stop you, as well, like fibromyalgia, depression, listlessness and complacency. There will be days when we simply won’t “feel like” doing the things we’re passionate about, but we shouldn’t let anything or anybody hinder us.

It isn’t apathy, I’m unmistaken about that. I do care. It’s possible that our heart’s are too large, maybe we care too much. Maybe you’re a little like me and have been criticized for being too serious, for being too hard on yourself.

They wouldn’t be wrong. But mediocrity is a horrible quality, and I can do better. Can’t we all? I’ve proven to myself that I can do it. I do want this, but how badly? That is an unanswered inquiry.

Where does this need for productivity come from, though? Why are we bored whenever we’re not keeping busy…or when we’re doing something unimportant? Why is reading so important? Why must I write, or appreciate fine art, or pursue the Arts in general? For just one day, I want to feel perfectly content, even happy, lounging around doing nothing important. Why did the world adapt this busy-bee mentality 24/7/365?

I feel lost, my path aimless. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do any more… More accurately, I do know what I’m supposed to be doing, but I question why. What’s so special about me? What separates my gift from the thousands of other writers out there? Voices vying for attention, recognition and respect. They’re vying for success.

I can’t overcome this stalemate, this despair.I am weak.

Why not just do the work, right? Easier said than done. Conflicting voices and mentalities; their motives make me hazy, clouding my mind so I can’t formulate coherent thought, let alone act upon them.

If you do one thing now, they say, you could be doing something else. Something better, more important. You could spending your time so much more efficient.

I’m gluttonous for torture. Sometimes I wonder if  I like it. I don’t deserve it, but given this propensity for punishment, maybe I do deserve it; I do.

Jumping online used to come easy, like second-nature. Now it’s like erecting a fossil. I would love to reconnect with those whom I’ve grown close to over the years (my heart longs to reach out and to keep in touch with every one of you, truly) but on the rare occasions that I’ve attempted to do so, a wave of guilt washes over me because  I should be writing or reading a lot more. Sabotaging myself further, that ugly voice in the back of my head pipes up: “Quality family time is important, too. Way more important than tiny words.”

That ugly voice sneers. Do you hear it?

Incidentally, the optimal time in which I’d indulge online and spend time with my family occur concurrently: in the evening. Afterwards, Carter goes to bed and my wife and I watch television until bed. This is why I haven’t kept in touch with you literally for months…

and the source of my pain. I am so behind. There are reviews I want to write, articles to be read, missives to respond to. My inbox contains thousands of e-mails, which doesn’t include Facebook personal messages, Goodreads, or Wattpad.

The following song is curiously apt:

 

 

In closing, none of this scratches the surface, and I do not say all of this for pity. Please, please do not pity me. But rather, I say them out of honesty and because I need to vent.

Thank you for listening, and God bless. I look forward to hearing from you in the comments section.:)

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