So, I realized a while ago - I don't really remember how long - that my life has been completely devoid of all meaning. Even the monkey, who I love deeply (when I can feel things that have meaning) and genuinely feel pride in my duty towards, was the product of something completely meaningless. I'm never going to tell him that, though. He does have meaning, and his life will. I'll make sure of it.
My duty as a parent, I realized last night, is to get him to adulthood safe and healthy - that's it. But expanding "healthy" out to it's full equation means so many other things than physical well being - it means playtime, bedtime stories and music and kisses goodnight, teaching by example to be a decent human being, lessons about self-reliance and asking for help when you need it, socializing, the list is endless and goes on - that if I were explain it in just that first sentence, I wouldn't feel bad about myself and my role in being a parent. It's my deal, not anyone else's.
Fuck everyone and what they think about me. I no longer have the time, patience, or luxury to keep these Negative Nancies around me, while I screw my head-brain up trying to achieve their approval while simultaneously trying to grasp the things I need to keep myself balanced and functioning.
That's what I'd like to say, but I think thinking like this and acting as such might stress the people I care about too much, because they care what people think about me. Perhaps is best to not? Perhaps. I think so, maybe.
I existed (wouldn't call it living) for a solid twenty some odd years playing shit straight and safe and sane. This led to an overabundance of having no fun whatsoever. I've had it in the back of my mind for a year or two that life is short, shorter than most people think. A lot of people realize this, yeah, that's cool, but it seems like they just get on about their days as if they were going to live another forty years, minimum. They don't know how they're going to die, so they just sort of "Meh" at the world.
Well, I'm not them. I'm not anyone, except me. I'm pretty sure I know that my life will probably end at my own hand, eventually. Not soon, I think, not too terribly soon. But I'll lose the fight someday, and it'll be game over, and what then? What will I have done to excuse my life here?
The past couple of months have been tumultuous for me. I'm somewhere different now, and I don't like it very much, but there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it. Well, there is a thing I can do, and that thing is to make up for years lost being safe and sane and motherfucking boring as a piece of cowshit. I'm ready for debauchery and obnoxiousness and laughing and grinning and baying at the moon, shrieking gaily and cawing and leaping and chasing and fighting and dancing and more laughing. That will be the rest of my life, to the best of my ability to keep doing so. I've been doing good at it so far, so that's a positive thing.
This second, I feel like my brain is glazed over and has a frozen grin and grimace of cold hate and a scary leer all at the same time. I didn't a few days ago, so I know it'll pass pretty soon, but it isn't a nice feeling. I'm getting good at ignoring things about myself or things I feel that I don't like, so it's cool I guess. It's just kind of unsettling to not be able to feel things, sort of. Not deep things, anyway.