The solo journey

The only thing better than stream of conscious writing is stream of conscious intoxicated writing, so here we go. On with the show. I am appreciative of my friends who have been with me through these trying times. I am definitely experiencing some technical difficulties.

I walked home from downtown M-ville tonight and it wasn't even half bad. In fact I think I broke my all-time record, and yet there was no trophy waiting for me here. What a sham. I feel like I've been in some kind of comatose state. Maybe that is because of the type of job I was in. By the way, to the people I haven't shared with that follow the blog, I was exterminated, er, i mean terminated by the corporate machine on Friday. It seems my background check came back unclean with some old school "misdemeanor" info from several years ago. I'm still battling with them because of the ridiculousness of the reasoning, but I'm also resigned to accept the fact that this is how the machine works nowadays. There is no reason, it just is. It's statistical analysis. I wish I was better in math. Oh well.

When I look at our society now I wonder if great artists would even survive. Could Hemingway make it in today's world? What about Michelangelo? I doubt it. It it a quick fix, quick decision society. If Michelangelo requested extra time to paint the Sistine Chapel TMZ would have already painted him a fraud and his genius would be shelved for a faster painter who could get the job done. There is no appreciation for the process anymore. The process is quickly, the artistic qualities, not so important. Even the authors we read are not exactly writing classics. They write novels that can be consumed in a few sittings. There is no way that War and Peace would get published today. Nor anyway that if Leo Tolstoy lived today he would write it. Why dive into a 1225 page novel when a 100-125 page screenplay can net you millions? No one would commit to that. It would be masochistic in today's society. Then it was genius. Most of us would not even read a book of that magnitude and I'm not ashamed to say I am one of them.

Am I bitter about life? Absolutely. I am a good person. I've made some mistakes, sure. Am I perfect? Of course not. Did I get my heart smashed into a million pieces? I did. My ex says I wasn't committed to her, but I took her to Europe. I'll admit I did not appreciate her as much as I should have and probably took her for granted, but I loved her tremendously and it has been a very difficult transition back to being single. I would have married her, contrary to her beliefs, but I understand that is all hindsight. I was a loner for so long in my life and isolated from relationships, I probably wasn't the best boyfriend. I also understand that age is a huge factor.

It is very hard being 33 and single. I know that people my age with children and in marriages may wish for their "freedom" but it comes at a cost too. The grass is not always greener. When you reach my age you think longer about what didn't work in your life. The mistakes, the poor decisions, the times you were wronged. They are highlighted maybe more so then at 23. Because you know there is a time limit. I want children. I want to play ball with my son or daughter. I want to experience a full life, not just the single one. There is an appreciation for life that I don't understand. I see that on my friends Facebook posts. Their pride for their children. I don't have that. I hope I will one day.

Anyways, this stream of intoxicated writing concept is sobering. I lost my buzz! I realize that I'm still young. I know I have time to achieve things. I just know that I'm ready for something more than what I'm living. Good night or good morning my friends.