Time's-a-wasting. For near 15 minutes I'm sitting with my fingers suspended over a this keyboard. I'm trying to breathe some life into a derelict blog. I'm doing this because I have to acknowledge that the investment I made in attempting to write consistently was not just a method of self-therapy. It wasn't meant to be a hobby only. It was meant to be an exercise that supported a discipline that might one day develop into one aspect of my career as a creator and storyteller. Why would I ever let this go fully knowing that it would serve no other purpose but the greatest one: to keep my mind alive with intent, self-awareness, and in service of the dream of my life. Recently, perhaps because of time and limiting circumstances I have undergone a great sense of despair. As the gifts of interest and opportunity might evaporate out of disuse, I felt a bitter loneliness greater than what I've felt provided by the missing peoples of my inner world; these personalities unaware of their importance, following their own stories and paths while I watch them fade from view as a vision that was never really there. No this feels worse. As the connection thins between me and the life of great merit I always felt I was made for, I found my sanity going with it. For it there remained nothing left to be done in this mind, if not to solve the problem of the unobtained.
What does madness mean to me? It means ignoring life's value. It means never believing in anything true again. It means always being a burden to everyone around me. It means never passing on a legacy, never finding love, never being capable of righting any wrongs, never leading, never leaving the world in a better place than I found it. For however many decades I have left I will sacrifice them to nothingness and what an addition that will make in a world already strangled by complacency and dishonor and injustice and horror. The people representing our humanity and the best possible future for our race, have always faced a bitter end. None of the people leaving seeds behind get to see if they grow. Perhaps their faith comes from the seeds planted in previous generations and certainly our people have evolved through great social change. But the greatest is before us yet. It is class warfare and it is culturally unbiased despite our tendency to point at old wounds. All manner of people are suffering now.
My mother and I live under great strain and for who knows how long will we be allowed to keep this shelter we've enjoyed for almost thirty years. If I'm not creating with what time I have left I have access to electricity, or a pen and paper, or school materials, if I am not giving all for the day I have a home and a family and the respect of a position that can be looked on with some acknowledgment, then why should I deserve it?
Does determination mean that we have agreed to compromise ourselves? Does it mean that we have knowingly engaged discomfort and possibly hardship to scale a height without guarantee or assurance? Under what circumstance is determination defined? Is being stubborn another way of explaining it? Must I be stubborn to earn the life I dream of. Must I be unwilling to accept any other? Is that enough for a person...it sounds, in its near blind refusal of extraneous circumstance, a bit like the madness I started out with.
Should a man be determined to change what is not fully in his control to manipulate? My financial standing in a broken economy with art as my main argument? Can I even call this art? The questions pile and determination, for its own sake, would have me ignore them and put words on paper or on screen and use them to argue that I am a writer.
But what was I determined to do with this claim? I live off its successful execution, without ivy league backing, without great promise at early age, without the sense to learn brevity or increase my vocabulary, I am determined to monetize the word as I manage to shape it. After months away, I am trying again.