Second Paragraph
This narrowing down of a life - jobs, sitcoms, homes, relationships. We come
to define ourselves, our time, through that which surrounds us. This relationship,
these people, the ones I care about, my loved ones - who I am/my identity/my
love.
A read horoscope says to pay attention to creativity, something I was already thinking about. Is my fate written in the stars? Or is some bored person with an eye for entertainment-writing fucking with my quivering brain?
[Can't seem to get going tonight. A lot has been going on in my personal life that I cannot find the right words for - something personally terrifying. But the words are too close. Pain lies in the description of a truth from the inside, from the truth itself. Meaning comes from the understanding, and understanding can only come with distance. And distance is a wish written in the code of time.
Where do I stop and the story starts?]
Pounding the pavement just to prove I can. Rising motivated for the work day. A bounce out of bed, a hop into the shower, a peppy skip to the coffee maker. A fucking advertisement for Life! Living the dream on eight dollars an hour, no benefits, no job security, and no chance for advancement.
Living in someone else's tailor-made utopia. It's great to somebody, enough somebody's to form a voting majority and establish themselves a village. A document was signed and a man was put in charge. You will burn in hell if you do not follow. I have put the fear of a power greater than nature herself into your minds and effectively rendered you god-fearin' folk.
It is the state of the church of the State in which you are voting and congregating and obeying and worshipping. Our government leaders are our deacons and our elders. The man with the plan is our pastor, our preaching interpreter of ancient texts written for a world without plastic and metal. A world without instant information or twin skyscrapers and passenger-carrying jets.
I was never told about my innate utopia, the house on a hill I was to strive for. I looked around every Sunday asking myself 'why?' Why am I here? Why do all of these people come here every week? Why do they listen so intently? Why and what do they study when they aren't here? Why do I HAVE to wear a dress when my pants are so much more comfortable? Does God really care about what I'm wearing? How can you expect me to respect you if you force me into anxiety?
[I am starting to tell my story. But I'm asking myself at what point do I alter the story? Change dates, tweak emotions, switch characters. Do I even dare? None of this will ever see eyeballs other than my own. That's the plan right now. The writing is too abstract, too amateur. I'm going for genius, despite lacking that quality.]
My mother is a career business woman and my father is a young pharmacist. They have grown-up jobs, small children, a church life, two cars and a mortgage. Bills pile up, grass gets taller, and wood does not chop itself. Their oldest daughter is weird and introverted and their youngest daughter wishes to be a beauty queen.
November 14, 2006