A Memoir of Inspiration and Insanity in Search of a New Modern Metaphor
Life has been sucking the marrow out of me
Thou shalt work at a job you hate to buy things you don’t need to postpone what you really want to do for a retirement that you never get. I am not free. I am confined by the chains of expectation to this chair in front of this computer. It hurts. My back went out on me the other day. I’m forty-five pounds overweight. A light jog and I’m wheezing. I try to meet the expectations of those around me. I’m confined to this chair because of my illness: I’m bipolar.
If I quit my job, I won’t be able to afford my medication, which I MUST take. Other than that, I don’t need much. I went for years without a car. I never needed dry-cleaning until I started working at an unfulfilling job. But, I realize I’m not going to find what I’m looking for out there. It is here. It is here. It is here.
But, I don’t see it. I don’t feel it. This is an act of desperation. In fact, this is hardly an act at all. I don’t get the ‘normal’ guy who sells out to society. It’s a society of consumerism. I am not normal. I’ve been called a lot of things, but normal is not one of them. I’ve had to shed parts of myself to fit in the box. Well, it’s cramped in here. It’s time to move on.
I said that I really wanted to write, but do I have anything to say? I have a story, but is it worth reliving the trauma to get it published and read? So, I guess I’ll give it a shot. I can start right now . . .
I killed the dragon Thou Shalt. I am an angry lion raised among goats. I’ve had my first taste of meat shoved down my throat. The blood invigorates me. I feel the rush of endorphins in my brain emanating power throughout my body. I am free. Scales fall from my eyes. I can see what’s behind the veil. There’s not much here. At least not from this rock I’m chained to. Apparently, it’s my wallet that’s been giving me such a pain in the ass. So, I set it aside by my car keys. It’s safe here. No one is watching. Still, I keep looking over my shoulder and listening for anyone coming down the hall. I shouldn’t be doing this.
Still, I write as an escape from this prison.
"We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of they key, each confirms a prison."
T.S. Eliot - The Wasteland
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