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I would like to stop pretending I know everything
When I wrote this I was experiencing some very intense emotions. I also had just watched the movie "Gran Torino" which probably explains why I sound so angry. I think I was channeling Clint Eastwood's character. I have considered removing the article altogether, since I'm not sure if anyone will find it helpful or enjoyable, but I'm going to leave it up for now. Read on if you dare. . .
It’s all a lie
I would like to stop pretending I know everything, because I don’t. It’s easy for me to pretend that I do, but let’s face it: I don’t know anything.
One thing I do know is that sometimes it feels good to pour my guts out, so here goes.
I don’t know how to trust. And I don’t know how to let myself feel loved.
If I were to star in a movie, it would start with a voiceover of me narrating those lines. You would see some random nature scenes spliced with some gratuitous violence. A massive explosion would fill the screen, and then there’d be a scene of a father and a son in a kitchen, sitting in silence.
The story would be emotionally heavy, and you would cry but pretend not to. You’d say it was allergies, but you’d never be the same again. My performance in that stupid movie would change your stupid life.
When will it stop?
I would like to trust but I can’t. Big stupid deal. Lot’s of people don’t trust; the world’s not a trustworthy place. I should correct that: sometimes I can trust. It’s a big effort, though.
You ever wake up with a massive headache? You ever wake up and realize that your whole life was that massive headache? The inability to function, to talk to people, to trust your own senses as they relentlessly beat you down.
Don’t look at me
It’s unreal the way I feel when you look at me. Your eyes are deep and I wade in them. I get caught in your lashes and go blank. No one understands.
Am I insane? Why? Because I talk to everyone at once? Hardly. I’m the man. I live and die on the street. That’s a lie, because I am a coward.
Brave men love and get crushed and love again. Real men give flowers as the symbol of their voluntary emasculation. They cut off their own balls so that they can feel. I gave flowers once. It was an act of blind faith. Now I’m still blind but my faith is a bit shaky.
Don’t you listen?
You want me to trust, huh? You want me to trust? How about you get yourself together. You worry about you. I’ll take care of me and you can get the hell off my porch. I know were not on a porch. Just leave, you know what I mean.
It’s funny how people look you in the eye and lie to you. Tell you things that they think you want to hear. I don’t put up with that garbage. Screw it. I’ll be dead soon enough, and I don’t have time for your games.
You’re gonna love this one
Once I was in a dream. In the dream I was awake, if that makes sense. What I mean was that the dream was more real than anything that ever really happened to me. In the dream I was crying. I was crying because something terrible happened. A friend had died, I think. Everything went hazy and I fell down. But I kept falling, in slow motion. I got terribly nauseous.
In that dream I was alive because I felt. I felt like crap, but I still felt. No television distractions. No incessant blather. Just falling. I want to fall in my waking life. I want to fall, and then I want to get the hell back up again. Over and over. I will fall and I will rise. I will cry and I will be a man.
I want to fall and get back up again. I want to live. I want to be scared and say “screw it” and push harder.
This is the really scary part. This is the part where I have to live up to the hype. But bring it! Gimmee everything you got! I’ll be right here, working my tail off. If you see me crying, you’ll know I’ve won.
Here is a blog with some really beautiful artwork
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