2016 started off grand and it’s ending with me trying to decide how badly I really need to be here. It’s been hard. I spent the summer unemployed but hopeful. I had to believe that when you give it all up for the sake of a dream — somehow the sacrifice and hard work will eventually rescue you from fragmented chaos.
I am still trying to prove to my critics and myself that being a full-time writer is the only way I can survive my life.
I was no saint throughout this process. I made mistakes and executed careless judgment. I never should’ve moved to New Orleans after a long-lost friend with issues offered to host me. That city is a racist basin of hell and is only best for visiting and being too wasted to notice the infected syrup that runs through the gutters — that are covered for the pleasure of enthusiastic tourists.
I shouldn’t have released my cozy apartment in the sky that I fought so hard to secure for the benefit of the Manhattan skyline — that shines so brightly as if the fact that I can barely afford such a luxury is a fantasy that Carrie Bradshaw would keep at bay with the help of a Big investment.
I was working a shitty job at a shitty bank that carters to shitty people with enough cash to make the less fortunate feel even shittier about their meager existence. I played the thankless role of a Bank assistant so I could live in a city that never wanted my ass and punished me constantly for not being dignified enough to fucking get it.
After withstanding and failing a summer gig at The New York Public Library that summons a corporate atmosphere that reeks of able-bodied privileged fucks who are tasked with making their surroundings not outshine their worth — I decided to quit the nonsense.
It was a huge disappointment and the experience made me even more determined to seek my quest of spending precious time making my habit more than just an isolated exercise.
Fast forward and I am not quite sure what I’ve achieved.
I know that I am not a mediocre writer but suddenly it has become quite clear that bad timing and bad luck has prevented me from realizing the dream of being able to settle into a lifestyle that doesn’t dictate anything other than what I can recognize with pride.
I am thankful for Medium and the friend who introduced me to the platform that has evolved into something more than just human imprints. It’s a full-fledged vehicle that can literally carry you to a destination beyond your expectations.
It has for some but for me — it’s a routine that I feel compelled to carry out even when I am too exhausted to think. I owe it that much.
The magic is fading and so is my capacity to shoulder the pain and disappointment of a life spent searching and begging for something that never existed.
While I was working out this morning and trying to remain calm as I mentally tried to restrain the urge to itch the rashes that sprouted all over my body overnight — I started to panic as I realized that if someone were to ask me to describe my present disposition — the words to adequately convey those emotions would remain unformed.
There is simply no way to illustrate what it’s like to be too old to dream and too young to give up.
I am grateful for Kid Cudi and Kanye West and fucking hate how the media tries to minimize the extent of mental illness by transforming it into a vending machine for the consumption of fans who only love you when you are in the best shape of your career.
The eager anticipation of a movie release date can’t be equated with the mental health of a human being who has given so much and now needs to replenish his spirit without the gawking antlers of an evil society.
Kudos to Selena Gomez who recently gave an acceptance speech at a silly award show and reduced us to a puddle of atonement as she owned her journey without the sideshow of social platforms — that only make users more miserable as they scramble for ways to maintain the gloriousness of their status.
Kanye’s release date is currently the trending topic. When will he be released from bondage and allowed to regain the hell that made him crazy in the first place?
We have become shitheads, which is why our incoming President reflects the times and your selfish pursuits perfectly. You can retweet his tweets and convince yourselves that he deserves to be called out but the truth is that we are more fucked than you will ever believe.
I am more fucked than you. So, all hope isn’t lost on your end.
I can’t stand to be sober. I can’t even look in the mirror without almost gagging. I can’t reconcile that I gave it all up for the embarrassment of concluding that everything I hoped for was actually supposed to be dramatized almost a decade ago.
There is such a thing as arriving too late to your own party and not succeeding in the need to diffuse your bad manners. Life owes us nothing and no matter how hard you try to make yourself skate around the success stories that glow on your timeline — the truth is that the recipients may not be more talented than you — but they are living your dreams and you are not.
The pain is constant and infiltrates daily. I haven’t decided what to do with the throbbing sensors that make the nights more heightened than the days — all I can do is just sit and take it.
I think I will try lying down and see whether it will hurt less.