Inside A Box, Inside A Box
Tucked in one of the many miscategorized, poorly named files on my computer, there are a few never-brought-to-orgasm blog entries that I probably won’t get to share with you. Not because of some major mystery that’s held within them, but because I just haven’t had the conviction to finish a single entry in weeks.
I sat down at 5 am this morning, crisp from insomnia, feeling bright as a fluorescent bulb. It is now 7:20 and I realize I’ve been biting my nails, staring at the screen, and wasting time doing idiotic things like traveling streets on google maps.
Tepid coffee sits in the Mickey Mouse cup my sis gave me last year when she went to Orlando. I miss her. I miss the kids. Yeah, yeah… the cup of coffee is my stale little soul. Mickey ironically smiles at my misery. The perfect cliché of the tortured, self-deprecating artist.
Mickey can shove his pedophilic smile. I’ll drink the stuff anyway. I’d also really love a hard-boiled egg, but something about combining sulfur with milk and coffee, makes my stomach turn.
Life has been good to me, I tell myself. I’m well. There’s nothing wrong except that nagging feeling that somehow I swallowed the red pill without being warned. Yet, I’m satisfied with the fact that I’m more self-aware. I still want EVERYTHING, but I’m starting to decipher my honest desires from things that might be cool to try some day. This doesn’t console me though. I know perfectly well that tomorrow it could all change. I’ll be back in The Matrix, eating Filet Mignon while making mental notes to sign up for jujitsu classes and take a tour of the Federal Reserve. Never feeling satiated. Always wondering what else is out there.
Lately, I can’t get over this intense longing for home. Belonging. Where is that? I’ve always been fascinated with transcendentalist writers like Thoreau and Whitman. Walden motherfuckin’ pond. It would be glorious to feel one with nature. To build my cabin in the woods. To enjoy days that drag on, and make time to fix a proper breakfast.
Beautiful, idyllic scenes fill my head. Naturally, I want to break something just so I can glue it back together.
Caught somewhere between anxiety and illusion, I’m like one of those stupid birthday gifts that’s been packed inside a box, inside a box, inside a box, inside a box… Open the damn thing already. Let me out.