Ok, but no one told me how difficult it was being optimistic.
Can I tell you something?
Only if you promise not to hold it against me, when the confidence comes back. Only if you promise not to use it to say I told you so, to say remember that time you were broken and uninspired, that’s why you should go get a job.
Can I tell you something?
Only if you promise not to make it worse, only if you promise not to give advice and say do this, do this, poor thing, do this.
Can I tell you something?
Only if you promise just to listen and that’s it, only if you don’t rush to the corners of the wall to fix it the way it can not be fixed, only if you don’t get disheartened that a boy chasing the dream down an unpathed path has given away everything for nothing in return.
Can I tell you something?
Something: I am broken, again.
And I sold my house and said goodbye to my business in the pursuit of freedom. I faced all my fears to find them warranted. Now, with all my freedom I am more dependent than ever. Only alone. My stomach grew as my bank account shrunk. And I had no where to go but my childhood home, no food to eat but others. And what made me happy, things like the moon and red wine, poetry and clouds, long walks and validation, not fearing Monday or hating the weather, not knowing the date or the day. It was all judged. And now I sit in this small box all alone with nothing but anger at those who put it around me. Anger that I can’t just be me, unless the me is who they want me to be. Anger that I have no where to run and nothing to stand on, because I am eating their food, in their home, with all my freedom. And the moon shines on the bay whilst they’re all inside, and I smile and laugh because if I didn’t I’d cry.
And there is so much anxiety within this small box. Someone is coming home, someone is going to knock on the door, and their mind is made up, you're sneaky and repulsive, you're up to no good. You sitting there, too scared to meditate and go for a long walk at night because they will think you're going to get a fuck. Probably going to meet up with three guys and all cum on each other. So sneaky. Such a little scum bag.
I'm sorry. I am a victim of my honesty and you see my shadows as light and assume there's more shadows, but, there's nothing there. I like to sit in the backyard and just listen to the birds. I like reading a really good book. I am ok. I am ok. And when I am up to no good, you can see it, everyone can, I have unfortunately never had the ability to be discrete.
Well, all judgement aside, lets look at the facts.
I sold my house, by choice, the same choice a sky diver makes when he pulls his parachute. That was my freedom, wearing a parachute. Now I am firmly on the ground and the thrill is starting to wear off. I sold my house, I watched my dog die, I reinvented myself to only be a bigger loser, and I did it for what?
To write a book, to sell twelve copies of the book.
$90,000 investment and a $82 return. A three-bedroom house for twelve copies. A dead dog for a dead dog.
It feels nice not being optimistic. There you go, you were all right, sitting with your interest rates and comfy couch, sitting with your now wife and holiday booked for June. And the practice matches start soon and you're fit and everything is ok, everything is ok, and you know what's gone and you know what's coming and this will lead to that and we can enjoy that and you can afford a set of pants that fit because you have an income and an accountant.
I have twelve copies sold.
And Peter Pan was ashamed of growing up when I am almost starting to beg to be. I can’t fly, not with my twelve copies.
But I have booked a flight to Dharamsala. And I will have three more months of freedom to write the next book. And you think I am excited about that?
You think I am full of fire to walk to the edge of insanity to come back with pages and pages of my archetypes stating their claim for the throne?
A little bit.
But its inevitable, I think. To end up setting an alarm and waking up to drive to a job I have purely to get by.
And ill look back at the times like right now, I will look back at right now and be sad then too, because I wish I was here, with freedom, with no job, and ill forget how sad it was when you shared your book you gave your life away for.
I'm sorry, let me interject, this is Riley’s other self chiming in. You didn’t give your life away, that life was well and truly gone. Its nothing but natural cycles of life. You die at least forty times before your body does. You didn’t give your life away, you created a new one, and yeah, so fucking what, you only sold twelve copies so far, but relax give them a chance to read it, recommend it, just slow down and stay close to your soul. Be present, in all of life, in this life, because all those paths you muster up in your emotional states do exist somewhere, and if you can be happy here, then maybe they’re happy too.
And there's always going to be something to justify the bacteria in the bile on the floor of your stomach. There's always going to be a death. A birth. A time and then another. There's always going to be a past without any emotion left in them and a future that moves your feet with hope. But you have now, and now you have, and if you cant enjoy that now, if you cant love that now, then at least be present in that now, because it is all, and if you can accept it, if you can find a smirk, a smile, a laugh, even a tear right now, then the entire universe will join you.
Ok, but no one told me how difficult it was being optimistic.
Yes, but what a beautiful life.
Sure, but…. Only 12?
