Being Aware

It’s a joy to write. It’s a pleasure to share.

The question becomes, do people read what I share? Does it make a difference for anyone but myself? If not, what’s the point? Why continue to write if no one reads and it makes little to no difference in the lives of others?

I’m not sure anymore. Maybe I’ve never had a firm grasp on why I continue to write.

In reality, I’ve had the same experience with all the various authors I’ve met on social media, specifically Twitter. My tweets must be the culprit, as this is how I define myself for anyone I only know via Twitter. This is why I bring up talking on the phone. Having a chat on the phone. Maybe that doesn’t make a difference, maybe it’d have to be something like being at a job location for half the day together, or spending more time around each other to really observe me as a person.

At this point it’s too late to change anything radically in the opposite direction, which would be a positive direction. I want nothing more for that positive change, and still, I’m actually not in control of that…Because I cannot control how other people regard me in this life. I can modify and adjust my personality, to fit in more with the herd that is the masses. Again, if I do that, I feel I diminish my nature as a unique artist. Only one version of me. Why would I try to blend in with the crowd? I mean, I’m a giant, heavily tatted, with a beard. Am I suppose to sit in a wheelchair? Well then I’m in a fucking wheelchair, which is just as much an eye sore as being a fucking giant, so I can’t win.

It might be one of the worst feelings when, the people you dream of working with, do not share this dream. Some seem like this dream, of working together, might have some initial appeal, or attractive qualities; then, it falls through. It’s inevitable I’m going to tweet something that rubs someone the wrong way- but goddamn, and I truly rubbing more than ninety percent of you the wrong way? The problem with that is, who the fuck am I supposed to work with, if such a low percentage of individuals is all I have to work with? That’s like being the schoolyard basketball captain, and it’s down to the last two kids- they both suck at basketball, and it’s really almost a joke they even stand on the court because they want to be involved more than sitting on the bench under the ramada, by themselves, twiddling their thumbs like some loser. Those two kids aren’t athletic, probably never will be because health just isn’t a top priority for these two kids…And yet, here they are- and they must be picked.

Well fuck that. I just won’t play schoolyard basketball, fuck it. I’ll go find some place to hide out and write in peace. Or read in peace. Then, I’ll go back to class once the recess is over.

The two individuals I’m trying to work with to write stuff, are in tough places. Lots to process, and for some reason, it’s just not gonna happen right now. I wish I could say this doesn’t depress me, but it kinda does. I’m a fan of if, I can’t figure it out by myself, why not come together with another person who loves to write, and work as a team. I used to be a decent athlete, and absolutely know what it’s like to work as a team, to be a player for the team, beyond just myself. Why? Because The Raiders can’t win a football game with just the quarterback. It’s a team sport. Life, through our relationships, is a team effort. Do you know what’s deemed one of the worst things to do to someone? Solitary confinement, typically in a prison. Sad thing is you don’t have to be locked up to be alienated and left alone by other people. You just have to really disturb others so much that they refuse to acknowledge your existence in this life. Eerie, how we can do that to certain people, and not be incarcerated for that. Like, it’s not a punishable crime to treat someone like they don’t exist. Can you believe that? People kill other people, and kill themselves, because they felt so miserable about their lack of acceptance.

I’m thankfully smart enough to know that I don’t want to die, not yet. Nor do I want to be behind bars, ever again. So, I guess my point is, fuck it. Like I said earlier in this post, I’ll go find a secret spot to camp out at, then read and write. My dogs are amazing. My family is pretty awesome. Know a few people who are pretty cool. So it could be worse, all in all.

This post was more me analyzing myself for you all, to show you how intense life can be, yet- by the end of the meat of this post, my glass remains half full, so to speak. I’m aware of as much as I can be. I do my part to stay focusing on what is healthy and a positive outlet. Such as writing these posts, or reading whatever it is that I want to read. Sometimes I read stuff I don’t really want to read if only to make sure I see what not to do within my own writing.

It is a joy to write. It is a pleasure to share.

I write because it makes me happy. I share because I have faith in me.

Philip Webb

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