We all die in the end

Originally written April, 2016.

Trying to unwrap me from the experience of taking myself so seriously.  I know I do it.  How do I know?  Because I can’t just let words flow from my heart, I can’t just paint something, or sculpt.  It comes out, well, all shit.

Then there’s the times when it works.  When I get to have it.  When it happens.  But I didn’t make that happen either.  I just allowed it to.  How could I even help this?  I keep doing, trying, attempting.  Failing.  Not living up to ‘my standard’, showing off my work to others who might judge it, me.  This is all such a cliche, but if cliches are so common, then why don’t I see others with the same observation?

Perhaps they’re afraid.  The judgement can be harsh and leave us feeling worthless.  I think in those cases I worry about suicide.  If I were to really just express and not think, what would happen if real expression wasn’t met with disregard.  There’d be lots of questions, firstly.  Always questions.  Seriously, a fucking ocean of them.  To drown in, to lose my identity in.  If I can’t answer them all, then I must not exist, right?  The lack of concreteness to the experience is unsettling and when I think I know who I am, I swim up to more questions.

Right when I think I know who I am, what I want to do, who I want to be, I realize it’s all pointless.  We all die in the end anyway.


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