This has become more of an emotional journal, and less of a message and sharing of thoughts and ideas than I had wished it to be.

I have poured forth much of the essence, or possibly mana, of my being into this “blog.”

I have shared deep thoughts; I’ve bared song and soul to whomever may hear.  Yet it is not my will,  nor twitter, and Facebook, and instagram, and youtube, to channel your acceptance.

I do not crave your reassurance.  I do not wish for your validation.  I do not long for your seal of approval.

I continue to write, and sing, and play, because I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die.

Because I keep forcing one leg in front of the next, wrenching forth one false syllable after another, propelling me from each sundown to the next.

The only problem is that I’m killing myself to feel.

But I can’t feel you when you wax negligently about the temperature restrictions in which your dog may feel comfort.  I don’t register your heat when you tell me the challenges your desk job presents to your languid, 400 pound, frame.  I fail to identify with the hardship your two-income, $750,000, failed housing decision, has created.  I balk when your decisions have led to the heartbreaking crossroads of allowing/disallowing your progeny to continue specialized lacrosse training.

I wish I could care about the things that you care about.

But I’m just not moved but these things.

Could one teach me the depth of the harmonic minor and its practical application in music?  Could we converse about the realistic application of ethics training in the work place?  Perhaps we could entertain etiquette seminars to increase our respect for our fellow-man?  Might you recognize that I’ve been waiting longer in line, and not immediately sprint when another line opens at check out, just to  hasten your process to your white picket fence, cookie cutter, familial existence?

And we bare children knowing they will perish and yet sell them dreams of immortality.  We tell ourselves that we are giving the world another fresh start.  We tell each one that they can be anything they wish.

You, I, All, lie about everything.

I know I will die.  I’m sure that I will.  So will you.  I think I welcome death more than most.

Please let us not sell falseness to those with fragile, susceptible, imaginations.

I understand that the more I stoke the fires of selfishness, the less guilt I feel.  The guilt that you, and I, and everyone seem compelled to level on our fellow-man, is unfounded.

Burn as bright as you can.  And if it kills you, fuck it, everyone dies anyway, so whats the difference?

So, stop reading my words, go do something.  Live an untethered life.

Rant over.

J