Night time ramblings

Life is weird. Especially for me. I wish I had all the answers but I don’t. Instead I have to pick what I think may or may not be the best for me. More often than not I end up having made the wrong choice. Yet I feel that this end result is common for most people. No one knows where they will end up. One just prays they’ve made the right one. 

I mentioned in another post that I’ve given up on trying to be a writer. It only seemed logical since I have written nothing new in some time, nor have I attempted to edit my novel in even longer. Plus when I look back on just what I’ve written here I cringe. I suck at it. I’m rusty and in the amount of time my mind demands of me to be done I will end up just disappointing myself. I had always thought that I would be a writer, the kind published in paperbacks and put onto a shelf. However that isn’t going to happen. I don’t seem to be as dedicated to that plan as I thought. Or I’m just fucking lazy and don’t want to attempt it without being astounding from the start. 

I blame a lot of my failures on my husband. I say that he manipulated me into this or that but in reality we are all responsible for our own choices. He may or may not have broken me down over time to be a good little earth minion, but ultimately it’s my decisions that make my life. 

All of this comes to mind because I spoke with a good friend of mine from SAA. He brought up how his kids went for their dreams and became the master of their crafts without having a “back-up plan”, where I have done he opposite. It made me wonder if my husband has somehow stifled my creativity because he doesn’t see it as being viable or a financially stable choice. On one hand it rings true but I have to wonder if I’m just making excuses for my own failures. That is why I remind myself over and over that “we are the master of our destiny.” In reality we are not. We can only attempt to fulfill some glass ball fortune. Otherwise it’s all about luck. I’m afraid I have none…

It’s strange though that I have given up but yet I have written more in the past weeks than in two or three years. Insane. It brings to mind the thing my psych professor said that artistic people have to make their art. They will go crazy if they do not. In one way or another it will manifest itself from their efforts by any means necessary. I like to think that I am that kind of person, but I know that I am nothing extraordinary. I am nothing if not plain and dull, longing to be something more than just. 

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