Random, Aimless and Unplanned – Opening Scene

This has become something that I have to do. Writing, I mean.
This is my daily choice. I have to start here because the alternative seems unlikable to me.
My ideas to write are as important to me as breathing or eating and drinking.
This is how I live. This is how I survive.
This is nothing that I take lightly and, of course, by now, and with all the years that I have put into this trick, I realize that I cannot give in or stop.
I cannot give up because of an illusion of success or the lack thereof.
None of that is real anyway. Besides, success is always relative.
Isn’t it?

I can’t stop this. I can’t quit. I can’t give up or surrender.
I can’t give in to the critics or to those who laugh at me or snicker. I can’t let anyone take this away and I cannot allow myself to lose to the ideas of intellectual or social snobbery.
I cannot stop because of the assumption that I am losing. No, I have to continue.
I can lose my time. I can lose money. I can lose a job. I can lose people. But with all of my heart, I cannot afford to lose my mind, at least not more than I already have.

I write for me. However, I assume that I am not alone in this world and that there is someone out there who might be reading this and as they do, they shake their head with an ability of understanding and say, “holy shit, I get it!”

I have lost to my thinking before. If I’m not careful, I can lose to it again.
So?
I use this as my strategy.
This is my way to replace thoughts with action.
Therefore, as a means to keep my sanity, or as insane as I am at times, this is my way to fight the daily demons and defy the odds by getting up each morning and coming here to see you.

The way I see it is the world is complex and crazy.
Beautiful, yes, but there are things which happen, and they can be unforeseen, unfortunate or undesirable, and there is life, on the go and happening all the time.
Literally, life is happening all around us.
There is no way to avoid life.

Politics has become the newest religion. People are crazy and war is all around us.
There are conspiracy theories and controversies, and things to bitch about all the time.
This is life.
But we have to find a way to do more than just exist or survive.
We have to live.
We have to find a way to manage the plans in our head. We have to be clear about this too because in the haziness of obscure times, and after all the eye-rolling moments, or when we have the need to shake our head—or to shake our fists at the sky, and curse or spit, I swear, there has to be something we can do to keep our cheese from sliding off the cracker.

I heard that line in a movie once.
“I think this boy’s cheese slid off his cracker.”

As if to say, he’s crazy.
Do you know what?
I think everyone is crazy.

I think I’m crazy.
I think I like that I’m crazy, at least sometimes.
I think it’s good to go crazy.
In fact, I have been saying this for years.

I think it’s necessary to go crazy or to go absolutely nuts, I think this is as necessary as having the need to dress up and go out on the town, just to howl again.
Remember?
Remember what it was like to go out?
I think that we all need to go out like we did when we were young.
Remember?
Do you remember the way we were before life took on this drastic turn?
And here we are, living in this thing called adulthood.
I’m sorry.
I reject this.
I reject what I see and what I hear.

I know that life is eventual and inevitable and hence, life is unavoidable. There will be ups and downs and there will fights and battles and scars and wounds that refuse to heal or go away.
But first, I have to be fair.
I cannot deny my part in this.
I cannott deny that I have been a part of the machine, which kept the wheel turning—and I mean this in the sense that I have been equally part of my own counterproductive chaos. I have made poor choices.
I have poked the bear on too many occasions. I dared the wrong ideas and agreed with the sucker’s choice and settled for less-attractive options.
But I don’t want to do that anymore.

Therefore,
yes. I’m crazy.
Sometimes I am crazy like a fox and other times, I am crazy like any other human being in this world. I am crazy like a man with a broken heart. I am also crazy like a kid who lost or broke his new toy, and crazy like anyone else who hoped and dreamed and worried about questions like, “Is it my turn yet?”

I have been writing to you with different themes in mind. However, it has been brought to my attention that perhaps I do not listen very well.
Maybe, I talk too much and that I listen too little.

I am not arguing this.
I was writing to you about the book or when, and perhaps, as it was suggested—maybe I should write about “now,” which I am, in some way.

At the same time, maybe I need to break from the typical path.
Maybe I need to get back to what excites me.

I love writing.
I have always wanted to be a writer. And maybe I am. Or maybe I’m not.
Maybe I’m a writer because I say I am and no one else has the right to say otherwise,
unless I allow them to.
Maybe I’m no different from the unknown street poet or perhaps I am the same as the unknown artist, unheard of, unthought of, and unnoticed in more regards than I care to consider.

Maybe I’m just someone who loves to write.
And maybe that’s enough.
(Or is it?)
Maybe this is my way of keeping my dreams alive so that I don’t find myself on emotional life-support, as if to be plugged into a machine somewhere, and tied to medications to act like tunes that breathe for me, or wires that beat my heart and think for me.
Who they hell wants to live like that?
Not me.

Maybe I want to rebel.
Maybe I want to start a revolution of my own.
Maybe I am someone who openly rejects the masses and the common bullshit that I see. And rightfully so.

Maybe I want to open a farm and release all the dogs in the pound and let them play with me until their days are over—and maybe the dogs would understand what it feels like to never be incarcerated again and never to be unloved or unwanted or destroyed, and never to be disregarded, given away, given up on, or abandoned. More than anything, maybe they would understand what it means to never be unloved again.

Maybe there is more to this than my love for animals.
Maybe this is more than my love for dogs.
No . . .
Maybe this is an analogy to a thought or belief of mine—or perhaps I could relate this to an idea of my disbelief, which is similar to the sad eyes of a dog in a cage—because yes, there are times when I can say that I have felt this way. There are times when I wagged my tail, in a way, and there are times when I tried to put my best foot forward (or paw) and maybe there are times when I tried to sell myself as worthy or lovable, and yes, the rejection monsters are real and alive.
And then what happens?
The flood of hope goes away and the people leave, the lights go out, and the dogs lay in their cages, unloved again, and unwanted.

I do not think anyone should feel this way.
No one should feel disregarded, unwanted, unnoticeable, and unincluded from the dream of life, love, happiness, and all that goes with it.

This leads me to where I am now.
I am not here today with a topic of any sorts.
I am not going to take this journal in any specific direction.
No, I plan to be random and raw and true, at least to myself.

I cannot help who is with me or who chooses to walk in another direction. I cannot fix the fact that I am not a typical person nor should I be typical.
I cannot help that I am not a critic’s favorite. And no, I am not here to win a prize of any kind.
But it would be nice if I could allow us the right to think and feel and to celebrate, even for a moment.

Just like the dogs in the pound when someone plays with them.
They’re reminded that love is out there and so is hope…
At least for a while.

This journal will be a series of random thoughts from an average man with above average hopes.
I hope that this will be okay with you, especially since you are me and I am you.
My hope is that I can find a path that suits me best.

That’s all I want.

I don’t need to be loved by everyone.
I don’t need my enemies to sign a treaty.
I don’t need more friends or less of them.
I don’t need to beg for attention or wag my tail like a dog, begging to be loved, and hoping for a home.

I am who I am.
I am crazy. I am sick.
I am imperfect.
I am blinded at times yet, my eyes are wide-open enough for me to realize that the clock is still ticking. And yes, the madhouse is still mad, but the boundaries of our sanity and the relativity are very real to me. And sanity?
Sanity is relative too.
No?

Some might say, “I don’t think he’s crazy at all.”
Meaning me, of course.

Some might think that I’m batshit crazy, wild, and unfixable—or as it was once told to me, some might say that I am “constitutionally incapable” of being sane or human or sober, in name only or in truth.

I have done some great things.
I have done some bad things too.
But, either way . . .
I have to understand that sometimes, things cannot go back or that as hard as we try, life cannot be reshaped to what it was, after life has changed to what it is now.

I am a person who needs to build.
I have to keep moving.
I have to keep “doing” because otherwise, I find that my thoughts have the ability to turn against me—and they have turned against me.
If I’m being honest, this has happened more than once.

So, let today mark the event of something new.
Let this be something good despite whatever happens next.
Here it is.
Random thoughts from a random man, living, learning, and hoping like that dog in the unwanted kennel, and hoping to find that I am perfect as I am, and I am on my way home, to where I belong.

(with you)