Then the days go by and I am still searching for something. What? What?
I have a cough. I have a headache. I have a twitch in my temple. I lay in bed and I cough again, I grasp the sheets and brace for the pain. I lay down and feel the twitch and then I yell, “Stop fucking twitching.”
I want to punch a hole in the wall. Instead I slap myself in the face. I slap myself and I want to slap harder. I have not gotten further or closer to any form of solace. I have not gotten anywhere. I have so much anger within me and it has no where to go, no where.
I think about suicide often, quite often, and not in a romantic way, in a somewhat spiritual way. All the same thoughts sneak through in a different dress preaching the same results.
The other day, walking to my car across a road I think about a car hitting me and it brings a sense of peace.
On the spiritual path, you try and attain the acceptance of death. Now, how can you not accept the idea of suicide without accepting the idea of death?
Then the days go by and I am still searching for something. What? What?
All this energy and I have nothing to do with it. Yes, I can write. That medium gave me hope for almost four years. And then… Well, lets not talk about it. I don’t know where they are, I am having bad thoughts.
I did all this for troubled children, for troubled men, for trouble ladies. And now, I am thinking, I hope you fucking kill yourself because you deserve it. I deserve it, we deserve it.
There was one deep eyed creature who loved me and he was diagnosed with cancer and died in my arms and shat on the floor as he did. I buried him. I buried my dog.
There was one girl and, well, she is gone too, not dead, but I am dead to her.
I get a message from my mum and it annoys me and then I think, ‘One day she will be gone, appreciate her now.’
This makes me very angry too, because not only does my observant mind suggest I stay present, when I show anger in that presence it shoots to the future and makes me feel guilt for my actions.
What do I want?
You see, I know I will never be satisfied and my anger brews so heavily in this fact. Not even my anger can be satisfied and I cough again and when I do I scream. When I type that I make mistakes and it all mixes together and I want to smash something and cut myself open. Am I subconsciously asking for help?
Am i?
Am i?
Am i?
I have already ruined everything I love. You, have already ruined everything I love.
What does it look like when you find out its all bullshit? When you find out the idea of pursuing your dreams is false and fabricated and pushed by those bred in captivity?
What do you do, then, go back to working each day with your tail between your legs telling children it cant be done? Is that my destiny? To be a playground in an abandoned school.
And, the worst thing, I will just have to delete this, because no one will even want to read this, no one will even want to pretend to care about this, not unless you make an appointment and pay $150 for the hour.
Today I woke up and meditated for forty five minutes. I went to gym and exercised for two hours. I sat in the sauna for thirty minutes. I came home and I painted for two hours. I went to bed and I coughed and I screamed because I wanted to die.
So, what is it?
Who do I give this all up to?
Who do I kill?
I asked the wind to take me, please just take me, whoever is there, please, just take me.
And sure, this may come across as mysterious and charming one day, but let me tell you this, whoever reads it, I want to kill you too.
And I don’t want to kill, I just don’t want… I just don’t want anything.
And I cough again, and it hurts, and I'm sorry, I am, this isn’t me, its just who I am right now, and it hurts, and it has for a while, and I don’t know if it will ever change, and I do things to stay alive and stay healthy, but a part of me just wants it to all be over, whilst the other part of me deals with such trivial things.
I am sorry, I am.
But maybe it is you who should be.
Maybe I should run away. Yeah, a grown man threatening to run away. That’s the only time anyone notices you're gone, when you don’t tell them where you're going.
I am fed up.
I am fed up.
I hate you.
You are a bad best friend. You are bad friends. I don’t want to be friends with anyone anymore.
You are chasing a dream, you should be happy, you should be a good representative of someone doing so.
Well, I have a bad awakening to inform the white blank page of: I am miserable no matter what. And the worst thing, is that everyone knows it is bullshit and everyone knows that is true but if you say it or write it then it raises concern. So, I have found out through trial that everything is fake and everything is wrong and my last liberty to complain about it is also dismissed, so what else do I have left to do but die?
I will put it into a story, and they will never know.
But, so many people warned me about this and I didn’t listen and labelled them scared and godless. And now, I am here, proving them right. So… now what?
Because I want to say something good you know, I do. But I'm afraid I have nothing good to say about anything.
I spoke with god briefly after my pessimistic rage and told him he does not exist. I felt the energy in a ball within my palms and threw it in the bin.
I also said to god, to the universe, to energy, “I have not had one single sign or one single advantage since pursuing the arts. Since trying to be an independent artist.”
During meditation I spoke with thoughts, “You have never been there for me, it has all just been me, to proud to realise there is no flow.”
I look at a burning candle and I watch the flame but it is the melting wax I relate to.
Then, as I drive over a hill I look at the afternoon sky and the clouds scatter across the shine of the sun, its rays hold atmosphere and hands of god fall to the soil.
“Okay,” I say, “maybe.”
Shortly after I see a black cockatoo. Large. Majestic. A yellow tail and thick beak.
“Okay,” I say, “maybe.”
And when it is all over. When it is just all doom. When it is all just fucked. You begin to see the little treasures again. When you have given up on that pursuit. When you have given up on hope and bliss; chasing happiness is like chasing height. I could make myself busy for eighty years searching for a few extra inches but its not going to happen. Why even bother?
Be happy with the happiness you have. Be happy with your height. Its not all okay and that’s okay, eventually.
As you can tell, I'm trying here, I'm trying to sound better, to sound nicer. To be optimistic and truthful. The world is full of enough doom and gloom and all the smiles come for the same fake bullshit. Can I find some real bullshit to be happy about?
Well, the sky.
And to think like an artist.
And to realise you're angry.
And to meditate.
And to have an early night.
And to admit to your friend you are struggling.
And to appreciate the very few who live up to the expectations amidst all their own troubles.
So, where do we go from here?
I think I have worked something out. No matter what you do, who you do it with, how successful or how catastrophically dismal, you, my friend, will be miserable. And the times you're not you will forget to even realise.
So go for it. Whatever you do. Play football. Start a business. Go to work. Be a dad. Be a son. Or whatever stage you're in, you're there. This life isn’t meant to be mastered it is meant to be lived. This life is not meant to be easy it is meant to be lived. This life is not meant to be bliss, it is meant to be lived.
I can hide away and write my books. I can OMMM and namaste and drink and finger strangers. I can suffer by choice. I can allow myself to break to realise I'm still just me. I can allow myself to dream and steal happiness from a future not promised. I can think like an artist.
I can think like an artist.
And no sales or sale. No girl or girl. No praise or condemnation. No conquering of the world or conquered by your spouse. Nothing can steal that from you, only you can give it away.
Isn’t it funny, how quickly we can slip?
Not at the time, but yes, and it will again, and I am constantly a working progress. I am constantly the burning wax. But just sometimes, when I forget to look or am reminded by serenity, I am that eternal flame.
Love always,
The Shadow.
