It’s January 30th, 2021. It’s been two years since I’ve started writing my book. I’m thirty now. It’s also three o’clock at night, I’m almost out of cigarettes and I feel like fucking shit. The playlist that serenaded my previous writing endeavors is once again playing those same songs, my mind is slightly obscured by a few forgetful beers and once again I am on the verge of either crying or punching something. I thought it would be over by now. I mean, I did something right? I set out to write about my darkness and throughout everything, throughout all the fucking hardships in those god-awful years, I fucking did it. I wrote a goddamn book, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m still dark, still broke, still fucked and seemingly in the same position as ever. All that happened was that I lost the romance of being someone on the verge of entering a new decade in which life was going to be amazing.
I put in so much time and effort, I fucking visualized the shit out of it but it’s still a secret to me now. I never thought it was going to be a magic pill that would solve everything in one go, but at the very least it thought it would get me a tiny fucking baby step closer. But it didn’t. I’m still sitting in the same room, rationing my smokes, sipping my beers hoping that tomorrow becomes the day where I can leave this fuck up place. The worst thing is that the solution is there. It is hidden somewhere in the book, or in myself. But the fucking trials and tribulations I have to go through in order to get there are insane. God doesn’t work in mysterious ways, he works in very predictable, challenging and fucked up ways.
A week ago, I took another shot at finding help by contacting my local officials. To be completely honest, I didn’t because I’m a thirty-year-old ostrich hiding from my problems. My mom did. But help was requested and my town obliged. I put off calling them for so long because I had no faith in them helping me. I knew it was going to come down to me having to give up everything I wanted to keep in order to be helped. Because after all, I am not in a normal situation. I need to adjust, and they would fix that for me. But when normal comes into play, nothing out of the ordinary can be discussed. So, selling a book while you are receiving welfare is a big fucking no-no. that’s why I did not pick up the phone. But I once again managed to fuck up my life, so the next steps were logically taken out of my hands. The phone rang, and I promised to answer. The talk went well but the result was as I feared. I have to choose. Receive help and ironically shelf my book for three years or decline and fend for myself with the risk of failing spectacularly. What a fucking choice.
Do I go for the normal safe route, ignoring everything I did to get my life back over the past two years or do I use this to signify the start of believing in myself? I don’t know. I don’t know a fucking thing anymore. I am tired, I am stressed, I am disappointed and most of all I am scared. I can’t make this choice because I don’t trust myself. I’m not sure what I am capable of. But that only applies to the positive side. I don’t know if I have the drive to start selling my book, I don’t know if I’m responsible enough to run my own business and I don’t know if I have the energy needed to make this work. What I do have is a fucking determination to take on all the bad shit life has to offer. I can take it all, I’ll be depressed as fuck for the rest of my life if I have to. I’ll take on debt, drink too much and gamble with my way of life until I die of natural causes. But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be able to endure. I don’t want to be strong. I want to fail, cave, give up and surrender. I can’t handle that I can handle it all.
In cruel irony, life has given me this choice. Follow your dream against all logic or take the safe way out. But if I give up on my dream, then why go to sleep at night? I don’t want to stop in fear of wanting to. I don’t want to give up in fear of agreeing. I thought I was working on my future two years ago, but I’m still stuck in the past. And I can’t get out. I don’t know if I can fight the war, but the surrender scares me the most. January 30th. I’m 30th, and I’m writing, like I did two years ago, tears streaming down my face and no clue of what I should do. Hell of a fucking ride. Hell of a fucking riddle.