Another day, another pack of Camels. Another low level quiescence of meaning, another fruitless search high and low for whatever I feel quite strongly I am looking for. Kupek wrote, Poker, pot & booze could help me wipe away these blues, and I suppose this would apply in this situation as well, but I have neither of the latter at hand at the moment, and the only playing cards in this house, I kid you not, are two sets of Tarot. Where was I? Looking for meaning. This is a daily quest in the halls of my mind and body & combined self, of course, and looking at it from outisde this may be a positive method, but it's quite annoying from the inside, you may trust me on this. Constantly re-examining - or worse; feeling like you should be re-examing - your self-worth and ideals is a fucking hassle. These fucking indefinables will drive me mad one day, or sane, or perhaps both. What's that, body-mind-self? You feel like you should be acting? I'm glad. Thank you for that. If you'd be so kind as to give me any directions? No? I appreciate it.
It's allright if your eyes have gotten fuzzy and indistinct by this point. My father has hit upon a definition of truth which I believe does well; 'That which raises an echo within you'. This is all echo talk, here, and mostly for my own benefit. I meant to say something here, but I started typing with honesty, which is always dangerous. Ah; meaning. When I cannot find meaning, when meaning hides somewhere just behind my head, when the hollow in my chest begins to make itself noticed and I cannot calm it, I will look at least for some sort of reminder of self. A booster, an answer to the constant badgering questions from the self, even if it is an old answer. "Back in 2007," I will say, "This person thought I was worth something." This will if but for a moment calm the beast within my chest. My good and I dare not think how many-years-long (5, I fearfully calculate. My god.) friend Lachlan keeps a folder with the many compliments he has garnered for one thing or another collected therein for his moments of weakness. I should have done the same, if i'd have had any sense.
This journal has always been a pressure valve, and functioned well for that. But I am becoming a little too proud, and perhaps worse, a little too fulfilled. The scream to the emptiness is wearing thin, and in any case the scream to the well-known cast of near-emptiness is not the same. I relieve my madness here and there, but perhaps a text file would do as well. This whole thing has become static, too static. Meaningless. Existing only to be shouted at. That's no sort of audience.
What I meant to say, in all of this, is that i'm seriously considiring leaving this whole thing behind. But there will always be a little bit of the validation-seeker hidden in me, behind the beard & tattoos. Come then, my invisible audience. Give me your thoughts. Maybe there's still something in this format that can inflame me. If not, well, in life you discard or are weighted down. Another day, another pack of Camels, right?
What is it now, evening? Past six, that's evening. Good evening.