A sharp pain rang in the back of my head. Is this it? That long feared exit from the world? Maybe it’s a brain aneurysm, and while I sit here in my boxer-briefs, eating Honey Nut Cheerios for the umpteenth morning in a row, will be when it will all go dark. I'll go out leaving no dent, mark, or even subtle imprint on society.
Just... kaputs?
No, it’s only my mind trying to think its way out of thinking. I sit here wondering what could have been, like it’s already over. I’m only thirty- two years old, thoughts of my impending doom shouldn’t exist for at least another thirty some odd years. This should be the thought of a new beginning. I think once you realize you’re yet to do anything you ever set out to do in your life, that should be your wake up call, like a gunshot going off from a revolver in the rooster’s hands. “Wake up you fucking idiot! This ride can be over at any time!”
I believe that’s what this is. You see, these are the first words I’ve written in years, close to a decade. It’s liberating, the act of forming tiny symbols we declared as letters, when put in conjunction form words, and when twisted and tangled with thought can become something powerful. These words can be the beginning of something new to me. Maybe my thoughts are actually worth a damn, like somewhere deep down I may have a voice that can etch into the ages of humanity. Giving hope, advice, laughter, hate, love; everything good in life. Or maybe they’re worth shit, there is always that. But right now they’re only worth a shot.
So here I am, before another monotonous day at work, ready to relive the same day, only this time I’m writing. My pen cuts into the paper, the ink bleeding out, letting my thoughts run free like a jailbreak after a riot. My insecurities, being the warden, just got shanked in the guard tower. There are fugitives loose, murderers, thieves and perverts — who still don’t know why they were caged in the first place—running amok. Now I’m not saying that I am any one of those things, or every one, but to deny that they even exist would be a lie, and lies have no place in this journal. This is where I exist now. No rules, no inhibitions, just raw truth, pouring out of my head like lava all over this sheet of paper.
There’ll be no more holding back, no more procrastinating. “I’ll write tomorrow,” I’d say to myself more times than I could count. Tomorrow, being a word that takes on a different meaning now. To me, tomorrow means yesterday, because I have as much business living in the past as I do in the future.
I’ve decided here and now to stop, and to start with I'll stop giving a fuck. Not about what matters, but about what doesn’t. Sometimes you have to get out of your own head to live, and I think i'm going to set up camp on my shoulders.
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