Initially I put this thing I wrote on FB and it was about Aldi and my wife and trust and midlife crisis and my mom who died and the dog we got and people liked it and then I was like hmmm and I somehow thought like oh this is it and it subconsciously sort of consciously I don’t know it’s slippery became my goal to become fabulously famous and make mounds of ma ma money.
So I kept writing and people followed me and I was like hmmm I should start a Patreon page and people gradually were like oh dude I’m into this project where you tell all because we’re so hush hush and I made a llittle money and i was like fuck yeah i can do this.
And then I kept writing and I started to realize that getting to my goal wouldn’t be easy.
And then I kept writing.
And then I gave up but didn’t give up but gave up on the inside, even though I didn’t give up on the outside because I still kept writing, because like every month someone would say woah man this is beautiful and that would be the 29 other days of the month of me feeling like I’m such a clueless fucking failure kind of dissolve.
Even though they never dissolve, they just got ignored by the ego for a moment.
And then my opinion of myself continued to shrink but I kept going and pushing because I’m stubborn and I did this for months.
Expand and then shrink.
I’d grow when someone gave me a compliment and then recede like the tide except recede way way way out into the ocean, like the glaciers receding, but when I receded the ocean would swallow me in it’s big belly and the ocean was dark and it enveloped me.
And then saving grace someone says woah this writing is dope man I would fund this forever if i could but i can’t and I’m like yeah I fucking hear you mate, I’d fund this forever too if I could.
And I look out and all I see is water and no people and no gulls and no clouds and no sharks just water and I hear myself hearing myself under water and it’s bleak and I feel sorry for myself and I feel bad for feeling sorry for myself because I know I deep down I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself that this is it, this is the ocean that everyone on shore is staring at.
There are still comments every now and then but they’ve stopped making noise and it’s just me and I sit down with myself at night by the fire and I tell myself self you’re here, when you write for yourself because it gets so dark you can’t see anyone else, even if they’re there, the ocean water is so thick and dark.
I tell myself this story and I know I’m lying and telling the truth at the same time.
I know the question of why you should keep going and if you should keep going are the same question and it’s always there, this buoyancy and saltiness in the water-air around you I mean me and you I mean I’m always wondering if you I mean me drown or die but part of me thinks maybe we’re dead already, like I’m this weird merman complicated thing because we I mean I depend on validation for our existence.
Do we all depend on validation for our existence?