Feed The Right Wolf

I awoke with the rare urge to write but found that I was overcome with panic and despair as I stared at a blank page. my mind was a haze with a dark fog. there was something blocking my thoughts, something rancid. I picked at this vile obstruction until like an ancient scab it began to ooze. below is its remnants of this stated trauma. much of this may read familiar to those who have read my posts prior but I promise you, this is the last.

Why do I want to write?

Well I’ve always considered myself a creative person and always enjoyed constructing world and characters. I’ve just never done it enough. People write because they love to write but my self-criticism and fear of failure overpower me. I have the ideas, I get them from dreams, walking, commutes, listening to podcasts, in the bath/shower, sitting in silence. The inspiration is there I just can’t bring it to fruition. It seems I would rather stare into space or be bored than risk creating something shite.

Am I stupid for wanting to write?

There are people my age and above who have dedicated their life to writing (or anything else for that matter) from an early age. Many knew that’s what they wanted to do since they were kids. They are naturally creative and have a need to do it, I don’t have that need just guilt and fear.

The thing is, looking back, it has always been at the core of every decision I made in regards to education, prospects and hobbies. Game design = telling stories. filmmaking = telling stories, podcasting = telling stories. The list goes on. I love stories and all my life all I ever wanted to be was in one.

Trapped in this place called reality.

I’ve always had this nagging in the back of my mind that my defining moment was around the corner. That my adventure was about to begin. It never did. I never found my way to Fantasia, received a letter from Hogwarts or was given my damn keyblade. People I used to know, used to date I see traveling the world. The closest thing to an honest to god adventure. I wish I had pushed, I wish that this was my ambition from the start. They worked hard, they saved money and did something worthwhile. I floated about getting shitfaced and waiting for the world to give me my due. A due I do not deserve. I’m trying to fix it. I really am

I already feel old.

My head is balding my energy is draining and I can feel death gaining, I’m fat without eating, I huff and puff and ache. Sometimes now I am the oldest one in the room. I don’t understand why people like current music, I don’t get their fads and I look down on them in disgust and am bitter of their youth. I’ve became a walking fucking cliché of everything I hated about adults. How much time have I wasted? I feel like I’ve barely lived, this was never the life I was supposed to lead. Now I’m twenty seven and all I’ve done is work jobs with companies that try to make it seem like what we do is important. It isn’t, none of it. Your worth is based on your ability to talk people into buying shit they don’t need. You are only worth your last months figures and you sure as hell better hit those targets.

An immovable object and an unstoppable force.

I am literally my own worst enemy. Narcissism and utter self-loathing always at odds. I often have feelings of superiority while knowing I’m faking intelligence, knowledge or talent of any sort. I expect the world to give me what it owes me, but I know I can’t just wait and reap reward. I feel the world revolves around me and everyone should jump to my every whim, but I know I’m a worthless piece of shit. I give nothing back to the people who show me love, I won’t to the slightest task if it puts me out, even getting off the sofa. I just want to be left alone and judge my worth on the pointless shit I can buy and the games and TV shows I complete. Why the fuck am I like this?

Where is my drive?

I grew up with the idea that I always had a destiny. I had a purpose. I was a “chosen one”. I’ve made myself lazy. I’ve never really had to struggle for anything, I’ve wanted for nothing. Maybe that’s it, maybe I have no real stories to tell. I have no experience. I look at others and their writing eludes me. I feel I will never master the twist and the turns, the use of language and the rich character depth that they produce. I know I need to quit whining and feeding myself excuses, I live in a world without destiny, this world gives you nothing. You must take it.

Depression is a drug.

I’m sad all the time. I have no reason to be, but I am. I have a job, a loving girlfriend and two little shit dogs. I struggle with money occasionally but that is all due to spending habits and easily fixable nowhere near I, Daniel Blake shit. So why can’t I sleep? I always have this nagging sense of worthlessness. I am slowly sliding towards the void, I try to struggle but I cant get any traction and the void just waits. Sometimes I have to ask myself if its real. Do I really feel like this or am I creating it? Is it an excuse I’ve given myself? “I’m fucked up so I can’t do anything worthwhile.” Is it that I’m just a lazy guy looking to blame something else for my lack of a satisfying life? maybe I just so comfortable wallowing in self-pity that I fear anything that threatens to status quo. maybe push it away, terrified that it will pop my bubble of despair and force to take responsibility? Or perhaps i subconsciously think mental illness is edgy and cool and makes me a more interesting, enigmatic person. My theories change every day, all I know is that whatever the reason, I’m pretty fucked up.

Contentment.

People work in electronics shops, supermarkets, garages and car washes and are perfectly content. I don’t understand how. How is it enough for them to commit 80% of their life to the mundane and come out on the other side happy. This isn’t meant as condescending. I wish I was the same. I wish it was that easy.

Many people want to get married and have kids and they see that as winning life. I can think of nothing worse. I wish that’s what I wanted. Something so simple, so primitively biological bewilders me. My selfishness would not allow the sacrifice, I could not give up my comforts. I wish I could feel the joy a mother feels when she looks at her child.

In retrospect.

Ok so that became a whole thing, but that’s it. That is my sob story and its time for something now. You read above the obituary of the old me. I am evolving, changing. I may be just entering the chrysalis stage and it will be a struggle but I will come out on the other side a better person. I’m trying to live my life to more of a schedule. I am trying to improve my health; physical, mental and spiritually. I have been on medication for a while now and I feel it’s helping. I have listened to a lot of podcasts, audiobooks for advice and read around the subject of mindfulness. I have had many internal battles and I felt it was time to put it out there a tell it to fuck right off. I will by no means be easy or quick, I will have my ups and my downs, slips and falls. Apparently, blogs help so I will update this blog regularly, I really mean it this time and will keep you posted on my journey even if it’s just for myself.

I will feed the right wolf.

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