The Arcane Musings, Revelations, Minutia
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from feb 21, 2000
Fuck. If there is one thing I regret having done above all
others, it would have to be that at some point I stopped
believing that I could be a writer. I had it all figured out
back in the 8th grade. I would be a writer. I would write.
Of all the impractical things I have wanted to do, this
desire to write is quite possibly the most practical. All
the other things I have wanted to do or be, ultimately,
are out of reach. I was to be a minister. For many
years I felt the call to ministry and was very diligent in
my pursuit of being a minister.
But ministers have to believe something for sure. And
that is an illusion or luxury I cannot afford myself. A
writer, on the other hand, does not have to commit to
anything. No belief is sacred, no action required.
So here I am, for the first time in years, actually trying to
write. I fully disbelieve that I am a writer. As I type this, I
feel in some ways that it is merely a fantasy I am
indulging in. How can I be a writer? Nothing I have to
say is important or profound enough to worry another.
I am utterly convinced of two things: one, that I have a
great destiny. Two, that I will never fulfill it. No wonder I
I have thought for so long that I was to be a
world-changer. A minister. A healer. A shaman.
Perhaps a counselor. I would like t change the world
and make it a better place but that seems so
impractical. The world is shit and always has been,
and I have neither the tenacity or drive to what martin
luther king jr did.
If I could flip a switch and erase all, everything, I would
have to, with one solemn, regretful breath, destroy it all.
Life has never had the meaning, or the purpose, or the
fulfilment that it was supposed to. I am so angry. Angry
that I am forced to labor and toil when the wage I earn,
which is being alive, is not a wage I want to reap.
Death is preferable to life. It always has been so, and
always will be. I regret having ever started to hope. I
have to say that I have rarely felt so hollow, hopeless,
and empty as I do now.
I am neither mad enough to be a madman, or sane
enough to be sane person. I am in between, forever
trapped. I long to be dead. Why do I even bother
I love to drink. Alcohol is truly the small death. It is
numbness, it is freedom. The only thing I regret about
drinking is that it has to end. That excess reaches up
and makes you take a break. If only all life could be like
that alcholic buzz.
Somebody kill me, please.
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