Poems, general writings, ravings, and other things.

"I want to know everything.
I want to be everywhere.
I want to **** everyone in the world.
I want to do something that matters."

-Lyric from "I do not want This" By Nine Inch Nails

Have I ever done something that mattered? Have I ever made a hint of difference in anyone's life? Honestly? I ask this to myself daily.

Maybe two weeks ago, a friend of mine asked me, legitimately I might add, if I had a flaw. An odd question coming from her, considering we aren't very close friends by any means. But my first answer was "I write." Not "I drink." Which I do. Not "I'm a jealous prick." Which I am. But "I write." As if it is something to be ashamed of. Perhaps it is. Orwell once said, "Writing is like a bout with an incurable illness. No man would willingly subject himself to it unless driven by some inner demon." There is such beauty in this quote. Writing does not make me happy. It helps organize my thoughts, but in no way does it make me happy. And honestly, I could not tell you what possesses me to do it. Perhaps I think that somewhere deep inside of my mind, there is something worth putting down on paper. Maybe I am just a drunk that likes pouring his thoughts into this clacking machine. You know, Vonnegut made the point that "The four American winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Sinclair, were all certifiable alcoholics." There is more harsh truth to this quote. These men, who we idolize as heros in the world of fiction, all suffered the same heroic downfall. Yet I believe there is still beauty. A happy man has little to give to the world. He spreads his joy to others, and this is plenty noble. But I am not interested in noble. I want to find the truth of this world, and no one has seen truth like an intelligent drunk. He was driven to self pity for some reason. He can look out into the world and see nothing but cons, whores, and derelicts. He does not see this thing as the common man.

Of all the things that I am unsure of about myself, I know one sure thing. I am not the common man. Whether it is insanity or something else, I embrace it. I am not the common man, and I am proud.

Perhaps I have done something of worth. I have tried my best to show whoever is interested how I see the world. Maybe I have shed light. If one passage I have written, just one, has ever touched someone. Moved someone, in anyway. Caused anyone to feel something other than apathy. Then yes, I have done something that matters.

All of my insignificant little problems fade away.






Note: I typed this up on my old Smith-Corona in a drunken stupor the other night.