journal entry : whatever

when it's time to get the fish out of the fishbowl they all scatter. that's what writing is like for me, the silly pet shop employee and the kid who wants a particular fish. that's what writing is like for me.

i'm of the solemn opinion that there is no point in doing anything beyond food\clothing\shelter. i can't force myself to look for a better job because i do not care. i do not. i care when it looks like i'm running out of money and my car starts acting weird, but i just do not care in all other instances.

i wanted to be an artist, i wanted to write, i wanted writing to be my art. but what's the point? i can't help but think of anything in terms of anything but its eventual commodification. that's a word for pretentious people, but here we are. you could write the great american novel and it could languish in obscurity for years like moby dick. you could paint starry night and wind up selling it at a yard sale for $11 and it could get torn in a stranger's back seat.

not that i want fame and fortune, i just want to know i can focus my efforts into something and have those efforts come to something. not fame or fortune, but maybe a bowl of food on my table? maybe some new rear brakes and an oil change? not likely.

but what's the point of thinking like that?

it's time to enter a bubble where everything i do is for me and those i care about. i don't want to help people, i don't want to paint a picture of how i see the world, i don't want to write a book full of dumb opinions on other people i've judged prematurely.

i've got a pretty bad case of the whatevers.

whatever.

this year there have been words i have wanted to say but knew no good would come of it so i have swallowed them back down and now they haunt my stomach.

there are people that regret the things they do or say and there are people that regret the things they don't do or say. you spend enough time being one and you start acting like the other. that's ok.

people don't change, they just act different