The pressure's mountin', but I don't Everest
It’s been awhile since I could muster up the courage to write in here—mostly because I’m busy wasting my words on Part II of the musical endeavor my brother and I embarked on (even though nobody even listened to the first cd. But hey, sometimes it’s just good to spill some words, even if they float off into oblivion, never seen/heard. No. Who am I kidding? Words only gain their meaning when experienced by an audience. I can execute the most beautiful turns of phrase in my mind, but if they elicit no reaction…? I think my brain needs rewiring.).
I blame the Internet. Any semblance of hope I had of becoming a famed writer died long before I even began fumbling with penmanship and brainstorming plot points as a chubby 1st grader. The frustrating fact is: There’s nothing left to create. And in my downtime I consume. It takes so much of me to create, and in the end, its just an amalgamation of past-heard ditties and somebody else’s regurgitated synopses. And don’t get me wrong. I start off strong. But then my head becomes clouded and my brain waves start to falter. My brilliant ideas warp as my synapses become syncopated with my off-kilter heart. And I ramble. Boy, do I ramble. I used to think it was all by design. Perhaps that’s what aging does to you. And as the slow tick-tock of my Peter Pan heart starts to creak and fade, I fall deeper and deeper into a haze of self-doubt.
I could have been something. I should have been someone.
And then my responsibilities rear their ugly heads. And my old body aches for sleep. And I forget again. Until tomorrow.
Bill Nye (via psych-facts)