Once in a while all of us go through a period of flux. An all encompassing darkness. It keeps a person grounded in reality. Sometimes you need to be put back in your place. Lately I feel like I want to pull my own goddamn intestines out through my mouth. The last few months for me, have been trying. The perils and stresses of home ownership and dealing with storm damage, confusing stomach ailments, the overwhelming workload I recently took on, and a myriad of other predicaments and situations have taken a toll on my mind. Sometimes you need to be completely burned down, dismantled and destroyed in order to rebuild your psyche and piece back together your fragile, broken mind. When faced with strife and turmoil, I have always used this method of rebuilding and every time, I glean something from it and I gradually mutate into something new, advancing the evolution of my character. Bile encrusted, booze addled, piss soaked nihilism can only get you by for so long. I am going to use this once abandoned blog to help me to get some things off my chest, and out of my skull.
Over the last few months I have been experiencing a myriad of strange and unusual stomach ailments. It begins as a slow, warm sensation of queasiness late at night. Typically I will wake in the morning to fits of gagging and violent dry heaving. No acid. No stomach bile. I never actually vomit. This occurs in the morning, and after most meals during the day. These symptoms and the late night uneasiness have caused me to eat much, much less than I am accustomed to. I have no appetite. My weight has dropped from about 290 lbs in mid March, to about 265 now here in July. I am fine with the weight loss. I needed to lose the weight. I have been working out regularly, but rarely partaking in any major cardiovascular exercise. The weight loss is slightly unusual to say the least. The late night symptoms are the worst. I do not sleep well. This has caused me to become slightly aloof, and at times even downright delirious. I do what I can to adjust. Some nights I just don't sleep at all and I go to work in the middle of the night, or early in the morning. I did see a doctor about a month ago. Blood work was conducted. They determined it to be "acid reflux" despite me persistently telling them I do not actually have any acid, bile, or any sort of heart burn related symptoms. I was prescribed medication. It so far has yielded zero results. The blood work came back, and apparently I am clear of whatever obscure maladies they had tested me for. I have tried a meat-less diet, thinking it could be something diet related. So far it has been two weeks since I last consumed any sort of meat. I don't seem to have the dry heaving as much, and the late night queasiness isn't as bad, but it still happens. It is something I have accepted for now. I have scheduled some time off from work in late July and I will be seeing a new physician. I am not nearly as concerned about these symptoms and ailments as some of my friends and family seem to be. I've always had a strong tolerance for pain. Whatever the problem, it's nothing I can't shoulder. The point I will be making here is, I feel that the stomach ailment and everything else that has come about, is due to a larger and more overarching problem.
Ever since I was a very young child, I have been fascinated with art. Pictures, drawings, paintings, scenes, sunrises, moonscapes, and everything in between. Animals. Humans. Obscure, ancient monsters from storybook lore. My grandmother was a very gifted painter, and sketch artist. From a very young age she taught me everything she knew about letting your imagination go, and making a connection from mind, to pencil or brush. I would draw pictures for hours upon hours as a child. I grew quite skilled at it. Won a few minor awards as a grade schooler in some duck stamp competition. I excelled at crafting animals, and putting them into various settings or scenes. My grandmother was so proud. As I grew older however, I grew away from it. One of the biggest regrets of my life. I know that if I stuck with it, I could have done something I would someday be very proud of. When I was a senior in high school I was voted "Most artistic" but it was a bogus, bullshit accolade without merit. I won the vote based on reputation alone, and there were in fact several students in my graduating class who were leagues ahead of my skill level, and any of them should have won the vote. I shrugged it off. It meant nothing to me. But as I grew into my later teen years and into my early twenties, art took on a new meaning. I found art in music, in writings, spoken word, comedy, many places. Art no longer had a finite boundary to me. As you mature, you find new musings, so to speak. I do wish I had continued to draw, sketch and doodle. I found myself writing poetry to myself. Things that were on my mind. Evocative, non linear meanderings, that if read by anyone other than myself, would be completely useless and without meaning. But they always made sense to me. Open interpretation is a beautiful thing. These late night, THC fueled musings would eventually find their way into the lyrical canon for a number of the bands I would go on to be featured in, into my mid twenties. I am still immensely proud of some of the lyrics I wrote for those bands. Stark, mysterious, and oftentimes, downright misanthropic stream of consciousness rants that flowed freely within the antagonistic approach of the music we had created. It always felt like a reptilian, reactionary response to all of the wrong, all of the fucked up things going on around us at that point in our lives. We lived it. Breathed it in.
If you are still reading this, I am in fact going somewhere. As stated above, I am in a state of flux. Over the last few months I have been starving for some sort of creative artistic outlet. I have always felt that art should be created for the artist. For the individual. If you are creating art for anyone other than you, in my opinion, you are doing it wrong. Art should be about individualistic expression. Not about pleasing the eye, mind, or ears of others. If someone else can glean whatever enjoyment or pleasant reaction from it, that is just an added bonus. I haven't been in a position or had an opportunity lately to express myself, or purge my inner demons and get whatever negative energy out of my head, soul, what have you. That is something that I am working on figuring out. I want to get involved with music again. I need it. It's not something I do for pleasure. I require the cathartic outlet, the stream of blood born vitriol that it provides.
Lastly, and most importantly, is love. I recently was asked by someone if I have ever been in "love" before. I was initially insulted by this inquiry. What kind of question is that? The answer to the question, was no. As it always has been. After a few days, and weeks, this question lingered in my mind, and instead of being insulted, I was filled with a deep, languishing sorrow. Why have I never been in love? Does everyone need love? What exactly, is love? I've been pondering this now for days. I have loved before. The feeling, notion or idea has never been reciprocated to me. Always unrequited. I have never truly understood why. It seems like whenever I meet someone who I truly enjoy being with, or genuinely enjoy sharing mutual company with, after a few weeks, or months, they grow weary of me. It seems like whenever they finally see what I am, or who I am, they drift away. Some more abruptly than others. It is maddening. I am a complex, and oftentimes confusing individual. I have typically been extremely picky with who I have chosen to date, or spend time with. I do know what it is to love. I have never been "in love" where it was reciprocated to me and made clear that the other party did in fact, "love" me. It has beleaguered me for some time now. Is being in love a look? A knowing glance? A mutual acknowledgement? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is deeper and more profound than that. For now, I do not know.
In the end, I will be fine. It is a beautiful, expansive planet we inhabit and I intend on doing whatever I need to do to bring myself out of this period of stagnation and despair. I've been lifting weights. Writing. Singing songs. I am in talks with one of my favorite musician friends for an August collaboration/songwriting session. There is always a push-pull, ying yang type effect with things. Or so I have believed. A Phoenix from the ashes method, if you will. I will create art again. I will continue to be patient with this precarious idea of love. If someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. If they don't want to share your company and invest the time with you, there is nothing you can do to convince them otherwise. And you move along, and you do it with class and dignity. I have been lone wolfing it this far, and I will keep on howling. I will always have a heavy heart, and a mind like a volcano. I've always found reprieve with the deep bonding friendship with the folks who I am closest to in life, and they have never disappointed me. Even in writing this, for my eyes to see has helped to ease my troubles some. This isn't an entry for people to cast pity, or for some sympathetic reaction. I've never believed in that shit. Life will be fucking hard. Get hard or die. No pity. If other people may read this who have been experiencing recent inner struggles and turmoil, maybe it will give them some sort of bastardized insight. So for now I will refrain from pulling my entrails out through my esophagus.
Live hard, and love strong. Even if it goes unrequited. Surround yourself with like minded individuals, and eliminate the parasitic ones. In a society of conniving opportunistic vultures, be a fucking lion
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