it occurred to me today as i was walking on the campus that i'm not sure if any of this really means anything to me at all. everyone i see is as phony as my job, all just funneling through life like cattle going to slaughter...sheeple.
am i the only cow that's aware of what's happening here? do i even know what's really happening here, and is this all that life amounts to? jumping through false masters' hoops, going through the motions, acting the way we were told to act, to feel, to think? maybe that's the source of my dissatisfaction--i recognize what's going on, i don't buy the okey-doke and refuse to go with that flow--it's like pants that don't fit.
just like the kids play "house," mimicking those who live it, i feel like i'm playing "life."
maybe one day i'll feel about the whole thing the way i feel about my job--just waiting for the one thing to make me say 'fuck you, i quit' and just walk away.
five years ago i wrote a story for a creative writing class loosely based on myself. often, when i tell the story of Archer to people, they say it sounds just like the movie "Into The Wild." i've never seen that movie nor read the book on which it's based, but my story is about a guy who becomes disillusioned with everything, sells all his stuff, drives to the coast, trades his truck for a shitty rowboat he finds on the beach and just paddles out. he's never seen again and all that's found is his notebook in the tiny boat. the notebook contains the rather uninteresting story of a man's life up to the point of trading his truck for a shitty rowboat he found on the beach. the last few pages contain what appears to be revealed divine text, perhaps even containing the secrets of life, but necessary parts are missing due to an apparently desperate last attempt at survival--the pages are half-eaten.
when i wrote that, i made the main character 34 years old. that was the year i turned 29.
this isn't a warning. it's not a cry for help, just my observations and conflict--i see what's going on outside of me and want no part of the big slavery, but i also know and reluctantly accept the fact that to receive my bio-survival tickets($$$), i'll have to play the game in some way. that's the whole point of putting myself through this, after all--trying to end up doing something that pulls me away from the edge of the 'fuck-you-i-quit' cliff. at the same time, i'm not really sure what's going on inside me. i know myself well enough to know that it's most likely just a phase of disillusionment and dissatisfaction. i'll patch my compromised hull once i find the crack that's letting the poisonous bullshit seep in, i'll ride the wave, return to base and then continue onward from there.
life is good, i'm just feeling kind of bitchy because my arms are getting tired of swimming through the sea of diarrhea while i search for the next island of reality.
am i the only cow that's aware of what's happening here? do i even know what's really happening here, and is this all that life amounts to? jumping through false masters' hoops, going through the motions, acting the way we were told to act, to feel, to think? maybe that's the source of my dissatisfaction--i recognize what's going on, i don't buy the okey-doke and refuse to go with that flow--it's like pants that don't fit.
just like the kids play "house," mimicking those who live it, i feel like i'm playing "life."
maybe one day i'll feel about the whole thing the way i feel about my job--just waiting for the one thing to make me say 'fuck you, i quit' and just walk away.
five years ago i wrote a story for a creative writing class loosely based on myself. often, when i tell the story of Archer to people, they say it sounds just like the movie "Into The Wild." i've never seen that movie nor read the book on which it's based, but my story is about a guy who becomes disillusioned with everything, sells all his stuff, drives to the coast, trades his truck for a shitty rowboat he finds on the beach and just paddles out. he's never seen again and all that's found is his notebook in the tiny boat. the notebook contains the rather uninteresting story of a man's life up to the point of trading his truck for a shitty rowboat he found on the beach. the last few pages contain what appears to be revealed divine text, perhaps even containing the secrets of life, but necessary parts are missing due to an apparently desperate last attempt at survival--the pages are half-eaten.
when i wrote that, i made the main character 34 years old. that was the year i turned 29.
this isn't a warning. it's not a cry for help, just my observations and conflict--i see what's going on outside of me and want no part of the big slavery, but i also know and reluctantly accept the fact that to receive my bio-survival tickets($$$), i'll have to play the game in some way. that's the whole point of putting myself through this, after all--trying to end up doing something that pulls me away from the edge of the 'fuck-you-i-quit' cliff. at the same time, i'm not really sure what's going on inside me. i know myself well enough to know that it's most likely just a phase of disillusionment and dissatisfaction. i'll patch my compromised hull once i find the crack that's letting the poisonous bullshit seep in, i'll ride the wave, return to base and then continue onward from there.
life is good, i'm just feeling kind of bitchy because my arms are getting tired of swimming through the sea of diarrhea while i search for the next island of reality.