The world is going to heck, and I’m pretty numb to most of it.
I’m not alright with that, you should know. I wish I could feel things as strongly as others. Perhaps it’s part of growing older, perhaps it’s my heavy depression and then the anti-depressants after that. Who the heck knows? I’m mainly just disappointed in myself for not being present in this awful, awful world. For not doing all I can to make it better.
The trouble is, I’ve gotten very good at pretending that things are good, and too good at lying to those I love to know the difference now. Am I actually good or am I lying to myself again? That’s where I get confused.
Things *are* good right now. The store is doing really well, Brandon and I are stronger than ever, but my brain meats are being dysfunctional. I wish I could sit back and be happy with right now, but that’s never been who I am.
We all have those songs – the ones that dripped into our ears while the world burned. The ones that fed us when we couldn’t eat.
This song is everything. It is all I have.
I lean on those songs when I’m searching for something, to anchor me to a boy who had no idea what he was doing, but could find words with great ease. The boy lives in the melodies of these songs. He is fearless and sad. He is an idiot.
Every time I decide to take another run at making Submet an ongoing concern, I go through the same process. I spend days and days putting together a schedule, set it a few months in advance… and then swiftly watch the days go by while I accomplish nothing. This time, I brought Danica in on the process, and she definitely provided the extra focus I needed to really work through my goals.
One of the things she suggested was that we need to have our posts reflect a good work/life balance, which for me, means no posting about comic book industry stuff… unless it’s being crossposted from places that make more sense in terms of “work”.
I find it impossible to write these days, and I have a lot of places to place blame. The store. A lack of time. A glowing box in my hand.
A lack of talent.
The real reason is simple: I find it impossible to write, because I lack the discipline to do so. Every few months I build up a head of steam and try to make a go of regularity. A small bump in the road, and that derails and snowballs, until I stare at my phone, stare at the clock, look around the store, stare at my computer and mutter to myself, “this is impossible”.
But writing is not impossible, it is only improbable.
And so here I am once more, with a promise to write, improbable as that is.