Narrating my life as if I’m a separate character because I’m losing my mind.

“Deep down, he had the fear. That he really didn’t care. That he cared that he didn’t care. That it would all come crashing down upon him. That everyone was right. He was wasting his time. His dreams, delusional; his actions, unproductive. His time, running out. Fearful of being crippled with inevitability. That all he had stood for up to this point was a mere facade; a way to keep from ‘growing up’. What was it about that attitude that had repulsed him so before, but which seemed inevitable now? Was it foolishness? Or the fire he needed to keep himself going? Was he crazy? Or was he right? Why was it that he had thought himself talented before? Was it justified? Or merely a childlike escapism, the only way to keep his spirit from being crushed?

Why did he spend so much time on his spirit, anyway? What was so important about it? Didn’t real life matter? What kind of point was he trying to make? What did it really matter? Was his heart yearning for something more real? Or was he lying to himself, making excuses, to keep from reading the writing on the wall? When would he know that it had been written?; or, even, if it had been written at all?

Suddenly, the life he had loathed, and tried to avoid for so long, was here. It was alluring. It was easy, even if unfulfilling. But how easy was it if it was truly unfulfilling?

The 9 to 5, and the sixpack. It was staring him cold in the face. Would the alcohol be enough to dull the lamentation from regret? Would it be enough to drown out the sorrows of natural difficulties? Would he need to ‘grow up’, or remain in his childlike construct of imagination? Would his escape be the very thing that haunted him so, but that which he desired the most?: his drive for success, and his artistic visions, despite the natural obstacles and his own limitations which got in the way of his dreams? Would he ever be as good as he hoped? As rich as he hoped? Or would he be delegated to the unknown?; Or, merely, the notoriously bad and unsuccessful?

All he knew for sure was that when the fire burned, it BURNED, and he was grateful for that. He hoped that the fire would keep him warm enough from the cold of uncertainty, and alive enough from the suicide of lazy, fearful, and ignorant, yet innocent, dejection…”

Writing.

Sanity.

Fiction.

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