A monologue of suffering, and the pain of the journey.

[j3w3lsth3l1zardw1zard]

I was to keep moving. It was a noble task, said the wise folk— but it did not feel that way. It felt cruel, uncomfortable to the point of despair. The birds were singing, but I could not hear them. There were many terrors, and the fear was sickening. The journey felt stale and mundane, how could this be a hero’s journey? The same day being lived over and over and over and over and over again. And over, again. New thoughts and new masks being tried on, the same lot just hiding as new ones. I would try to stop thinking, stop trying without trying, which was trying in itself. But was trying Bad? No, but they say so much— so many laws that were not laws to be held. There I go. Lost in the labyrinth again. The estuaries of thought. And the impossible knots— and the boredom to leave me alone with it all. Where was the magic? Why was the guilt and the stuff there? I didn’t hate myself, not anyone else. There was just The Bad. The Fear. The Anger. The Push & Pull. The Feelings. How am I to escape this place of mind and plane? How am I to accept it all? Years of confusion. Trying so many things. So many stories, so many lies and so many cries… I wanted to go. I’d said this for years. “I want to go NOW! Stop it NOW!” I was the one who had to do it. But the confusion, the paradoxes, and most of all, the suffering felt when doing. What was I trying to manifest determination, courage, vitality, contentment. Excitement, the unsureity of adventure. And I had written it over and over and over again. I knew what I needed to do, I needed to leave. But how? No money. Fear. I could make money with my art, but the energy, the “Could I?” What could I do? And so I stop typing, and I tried to meditate, and I tried to cry, and I tried to die. And still— here I lie.

[solereproduction]

Boy, do I understand this, inside out.