i often lie awake wondering if i'll ever make something that matters. i clearly want to, it's evident to others that i do. i'm never *content* with passivity - one-sided conversations make me itchy.
this perhaps feels similar to the kind of social insecurity that compels you to butt in as though you know what you're talking about, as if you'd be satisfied just being loud enough to be heard. but when you do this, it's nothing. there's no content to the noise. it's a vacuum comprised of self-sustaining grief and insecurity loud and numb as static. why does this happen?
i might think we're not pulling from ourselves, here. art is, after all, a big ugly patchwork quilt of the stuff! say we attempt the pulling only to find that we've constructed "ourselves" around ideas that very much aren't "ourselves," then what?
i've spent so much of my life, a black hole of experiences, not really being me but what the situation demands. a little, little soldier. i'm what i believe people expect of me - what might make people *proud* of me, whatever may make me worthy. inside this very false shell constructed, ironically, to avert gazes, what i feel i actually *am* is a very ugly thing. i find it deeply contemptable, the shell and the whole thing. i'm paralyzed when i access what's inside. to my mind, my ugliness is the one thing that's true about me.
i decide this isn't anything worth contributing, so i skirt the bounds of this void with mediocre prose and words that sound like things. i butt in, with nothing very important to say, nothing truly meaningful to impart. i lock it away and i don't feel better