I wrote and saved this in November of last year and just read it today. Then I think about what a difference six months makes:
This will come across as incredibly cynical, perhaps rightfully so, but there isn't a modecum of self-pity involved. I have no dreams. I don't aspire to be a rockstar or an author or to have fame or glory or anything (anymore).
For the longest time I've struggled vehemently with what it is I want to do with my life. But I recently arrived at the realization that you don't always have to have dreams or lofty ambitions. What's so bad about being content with existence, with discovering value in menutia (deemed such by our culture).
I still love music. I love imbibing it and hopefully one day crafting it. But I'm not going to flagellate myself anymore for a misspent youth devoid of honing skills that I wish I now had.
My relocation bug is recharged. The substantive things keeping me here are kindred friends that barely constitute a handful (if you have to ask...) and of course the comfort of familiarity (which is supposed to breed contempt? What the fuck?). Point being, I'm stagnating. Once I thought I was destined for great things. Not that long ago, actually. But now I'm just aging, seemingly the only talent I've mastered during my tenure with the mortal coil. And it's noone's fault but my own, yet exacting change seems to be some herculean task for me.
But I sit here in this freezing aparment with my wine and my cat and wonder about the existence of this internal conflict. What am I clinging to? I want to give my possessions away (scavenger bells resound in the heads of my readers). I want bare walls. I want to be surrounded by art and books and music and all that is not this, and to be attached to nothing. And listen to my sad-sac soundtrack of 2006.
I don't want to feign joviality around people (especailly family), a relatively timid pain compared to "airing" grievances to which they proffer their simple solutions.