I don’t really want to write about yesterday, but now that I have some food in my belly and the coffee is aromatically tickling my senses, I am open to the possibility.
I’m not sure if this will have any value, but I have learned that I cannot be trusted to see the value of what I write or what purpose it will serve. What I see and what you see, seem universes onto themselves. I have learned to let things be.
My task is not to waver, to let go, and come back to write tomorrow.
4:02 am.
The time I choose to wake up every morning.
As much as that time scares some people, today, I eagerly anticipated its arrival.
Yesterday was a shitty day.
I usually don’t express myself in Latin, but I’ve searched and searched for better way to express myself and came up blank.
I’m not sure what happened yesterday.
I just gave up.
Overcome with terrible pangs of loneliness. Preoccupied with the unrelenting onslaught of wave after wave of anger, I ran away from my family, and hid in plain sight, on the couch, by the kitchen table, and on the sofa.
I shut down.
I haven’t shut down like this in a very long time. My body was well but my state of mind was sick.
I called myself many names. Troll being the nicest, if I am to avoid more entanglement with some Latin verses.
I am a forty-five-year-old man and yet, I still berate myself.
I refuse to make eye contact. I interpret everything with a bitter tinge. I tell myself that I am worthless. That what I write is stupid. That I am a failure as a father. A failure as a husband, and a fraud of a human being.
And then later, when the storm subsides, I ask myself if I am finished?
I’m not really sure where the new confidence or outlook on life is coming from. Perhaps it’s the weight training in the morning. Perhaps it’s the commitment to write every day.
It might be the hour or two of motivational talks I hear every morning. Perhaps it’s the good books I am reading. The gossip I have avoided. The television I don’t watch. The social media I ignore. Or the people I have surrounded myself with.
I’m not really sure what’s working, but I am mightily vigilant and cautious, of even letting one of them go.
I don’t want to be who I was.
That man is dead.
I even threw out his double XL clothing.
It wasn’t always like this.
My melancholy was long. Drawn out. Filled with long, melodramatic episodes of quitting and stomping my feet like a little insolent child.
Sometimes, you just have to go to bed.
You have to wave goodbye to a shitty temporary existence and wake up with a new soul, a new mind, and decide to steer in a new direction.
This all sounds a lot easier on paper, I know.
It seems false and contrived as I type it, but if you know me, you know I have no reason to lie.
Whatever your struggle. Whatever your disappointments. Whatever your failures may be.
Despite their length or intensity.
No matter the regret or guilt, you might surround yourself with, and wear as a blanket of comfort.
No matter what.
Failure comes to an end.
It always comes to an end.
Don’t hang on. Let whatever imprisons you, large or small, die.
Bury it.
Pound the dirt with your shovel.
Yell, scene.
And begin anew.
