Is it normal to reject everything that should be normal? I’m talking about getting a job, working my way up, saving money, then scaling vertically along ladder of success.
Sounds like gag-me-with-cliche, but from my low point of perspective—it’s not. I’ve never felt so low, actually.
It’s gotta be part-age. I’m not young anymore. I ought to be “mid-career” but I’m just some unemployed guy. My wife is disgusted with me and my kids don’t take me seriously.
Yet, still I resist the part about being normal. Something within tells me there’s so much more to life than following the steps. I really fell like I’m not that guy, that I’m supposed to do something extreme and amazing. Then I think I can’t do that because I’m obligated to care for a family, but then I think, “why the hell should that matter…if I were truly awesome I’d do it with a family, too.”
So I’m apt to think there’s something amiss. And the most I can come up with is that it must be me. I can’t even call myself a wash-up because I never really made it out to sea.
Here’s the part I start blabbing so I can take up the next 108 words because I make it a daily goal to write at least 300 words and even though it’s becoming the habit I was hoping for I can’t say it’s doing much for inspiration nor aspiration, not even perspiration.
All I really get—and this is probably good—is the comfort of creating a daily brief of prose. There are no standards of quality to measure, nor audience to judge me—just a shallow wading pool of my words. And my pathetic, shitty self lamenting to myself about myself.
Still dragging out here, watching the word count gradually tick up to 300, much you’d do on a treadmill when you’re just trying to burn some calories.
…<sigh>…