X: Hollow log

I want to write something personal right now, about the state of my life, but I can't bring myself to. I'm stopped. I think about risks I could have taken with my life years ago, and how I might be happier in the misery they would have led to than in the comfort that safety provides. I'm forever on the brink of leveling up my maturity.

I've got problems but they're not unlivable. It's sick that I sit and stew and privately hate things about my personal life but won't bring myself to change them. I've had friends that, as soon as they were dissatisfied with something, dropped it and moved on. Not a second later. I've had friends that developed their lived on the very path that you're supposed to, and I've had friends who've had more trouble getting out of the starting gates than I have.

I could be a good writer. I could be the best of my generation for all I know but I am so behind on the drive it takes to really make it. I could also be a total shithead. I often talk abouthow I miss the opportunities of the past. It's fucking dumb. The past is gone. I have so much future to work with, but I'm stalled.

What is the reality? That I'm writing. I am, I swear I am, toiling away in my spare moments trying to carve out an escape plan. I see myself as Andy Dufresne in Shawshank, taking twenty years to rock-hammer his way through a concrete wall, and in the meantime making his situation as liveable as possible. But I don't want to take twenty years. "Get busy living or get busy dying" is the line from that movie.

This is a rambling, directionless excoriation of myself that will amount to nothing. I'm going to wake up tomorrow now having changed my life at all. A few days ago Stacie asked what I would be doing if the store shut down and I was gobsmacked for an answer. Unlike all of them there isn't a "field" I want to be working in.

Message truncated.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto