Ipropose that commercialism is a gift. While I may be a madman, to admit the current state of my psyche only furthers the strength of my argument. If I weren’t so crazy, I may not see the blessing of the distraction in front of my eyes.
We’ve all done it before. Focused on the fact that our room is a mess to avoid finishing a project. Changed our hairstyle after a breakup to reflect a new part of ourselves that would hopefully hasten the transition to recovery.
It is this common action that causes me to believe that commercialism is a salve to my great and chronic pain. I can worry about the size of my television set or my lack of a complete collection of spices, but really I’m worrying about if I should break up with my boyfriend or if I can ever reach my goals.
Deep inside of us there is always a way for us to climb out of whatever hole we have crawled into. I choose to believe that my ladder is burning bridges and buying useless products.
I write for no one. With no expectation that I will be heard. I confuse my loneliness with uniqueness and I wish to be considered but am only seen.
Attention is no longer the fuel that propels my addictions. It was a lovely gateway drug, but now I crave something more; something interactive.
With no concern for how often I tread on other’s feelings, my self-awareness propels me forward. I am cold and I cave in. I am intentional yet unclear. I am going through a transition by attempting to settle in. Not down, mind you. The thought offends.
My writing is terrible yet honest. Proficient and unclear. Grammatically annoying and tempered without suggestion.
I think about starting a blog all the time then remember I have one, two, three, then remember I will never post then remember how I loathe the thought of others hearing my words then remember all I want is to be heard.
Originally Written Summer 2014
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