There's this voice, deep in the back of my head, that I do my best to keep quiet. I distract myself daily, an almost constant battle of one stagnant waste of life to another, bouncing from games to porn to work to worry to anxiety to anything that keeps me from hearing what it has to say. It's not that it tells me anything bad, per se, but that it tells me I'm meant for more and it calls me out on everything I do.
It's a stupid "I'm special" kind of voice that tries to remind me that I come from a psychic blood line and that I'm supposed to be a warrior in the grand scheme of the war that's happening on this planet right now. Now the wars in the Middle East, or even the War on Terrorism, but the war that is happening between very powerful yet very selfish people who have taken the common flaws of humanity and exploited them to keep the general member of society in a happy bubble of consumeristic 21-century American life style dreams, one that has just enough stress and drama to keep people from ever wanting to look outside of their mental shackles. This voice mocks me for pushing myself so hard to conform to this very lifestyle I despise, by use of numbing it with drugs and video games and grand ambitions outside of my reach, ambitions that I sometimes deceive myself into believing that if I attain, will be the middle ground between this shell of me that walks the days and the hidden me I keep locked up.
It's the hidden me that yearns to be human, in all of it's magical aspects, yet the shell of me just wants to be a member of society and has spent so long learning to silence parts of myself that I know nothing anymore but the act of shutting myself up.
I didn't really realize this until recently when I started trying to express. When I went into the dungeon in my mind to visit the old friend that used to shock and awe others around me, the one that always told me I was lazy and focused on all of the wrong things. I went to see if he would help me speak and all he could say is that 15 years ago, I was on the right track, but then I let the road go in a desperate attempt to have friends with all the wrong people and my own insecurities ate me up and got the better of me to where I had drug myself up to cope and not act out with the angst I was filled with.
Blah. I'm too tired. Too many thoughts are racing by too fast and I can't finish a sentence of one idea before twenty different tangents spawn from it and run their course. And being able to only type a letter at a time, I can't keep up with trying to stick with one path as all of the tangented thoughts have merit and need to be told.
It's time I start a diary. It's time I get back to writing. If anyone is reading this, I apologize now for the horrible way this is all coming across. Hopefully in time, as I practice letting these outbursts of stories flow from me, they will come out with better structure and more focused.
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