I am forgetting how to be myself. I talk, but words are next to impossible to find and dialogue sounds as if I’ve been smoking myself stupid for the past five years, which I have. There is much that I would like to accomplish in this lifetime, but doubt now plagues my confidence like those relentless half-wits who just keep hanging around until their pointless chatter, ignorant remarks, and feathery cheap shots inevitably begin to soak through. I hate to hate myself, but it is an easy thing to do when a five hour day finds me back in bed pining over insignificant injustices. My life is a collage of contradictive clichés and mediocre talents much too common to be considered “exceptional”. The other night I looked to the sky just in time to see the falling of a dying star. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have caught such a glimpse, just on chance, but my friend remained completely oblivious. I know I am a legend to myself, but what are the permanent effects of such behavior? My problem is not to be confused with vanity for I do not feel that I am God’s gift to Earth, rather, I believe that there is a certain “greatness” contained within myself possessing the capability of providing unrealistic happiness. Unrealistic is right, for common sense informs me that most of society’s population is feeding itself the very same stuff. How long till I reach that point where so many others have conformed to meet the requirements of stability and security? Maybe I should prefer feeding myself crap instead of weakening to compressive stress and breaking due to brittle conditions. On a seemingly cloudless day, where the Bayou City air disguises itself as oxygen, I can see the top of every skyscraper as they pass me by only to come up behind.
February 19, 2001