Musings

A Story by

Frustrated musings with no set structure. Just felt I should put them somewhere, why not here?

Where do I stand in this world except in a puddle of melting snow in the least inspiring place the world has ever known? I guess it all depends on your perception. Seems like the infinite fields of nauseating browns and grays is enough to motivate more artists to push themselves far enough in the art world to make a name for themselves in entertainment than I ever knew was possible. Who can blame them, oppressed their entire lives by stuffy parents in Christ-unified small towns where the sky is as lifeless as the way they're brought up to feel is normal. The instinct to add color to that empty canvas just kept blossoming and rooting itself deeper into their everyday lives until they woke up from their bitter-cold, Midwestern "unlife" that more resembles sleep and realized that if they didn't run with it, they too would fall into the cycle, and the mere idea of that alone is enough to send them sprinting, imagination in tow along with whatever cash they earned in their part-time job and anything that hadn't been tainted by the bland memories they were forced to carry already. They're so terrified of going through life without the things that make them feel truly alive. Who knew something as beautiful and saddening as an artist with not yet broken spirit could come of leading a dormant life on an invisible leash held by whatever power birthed them into that horribly dull situation in the middle of a cornfield? So where do I stand in all that? Why do the same rules not apply? Where lies my muse among the grit that stands between the tires on my rusting SUV and the road, between my ability to breathe and the chance of rolling my car off the freeway? I keep asking myself what I'm missing and my thoughts shoot blanks like in a very lucky game of Russian roulette, except I long for the bullet. I know I'm fed up, but is it enough to simply be done with it all, with everything the day hands you? My plan of action appears not to have a beginning or end, and I'm clueless as to if I'm in the middle or if I'm a thousand miles away from where I need to be. There are few things I know for certain, and all are subject to change. I know a handful of things that make me happy. Melodies. Salty foods. Sexual experimentation. Warm blankets. Perhaps the problem with each is how common they all are. You can be anywhere in the world, anywhere in your lifespan and appreciate and enjoy those things. I guess I seek the thrills you don't get everyday, but they're in such short supply. Nothing makes me happy anymore because they're not precisely what I desire, and that's not okay. It should never be okay to have too high of expectations, otherwise failure is set in stone. But to settle feels absurd. And all in all, I'm just... numb. I don't feel anything like I used to. I don't feel anything.... I don't feel.