This isn’t a poem or a blog post.
This isn’t a satirical article or a cry for help.
It’s just a simple question.
“What will be the price you pay for complacency?
To what end will you run me rampant and into the ground, head first kicking and screaming?
How far will you stretch yourself to only prove to yourself that you’re completely miserable?
When will you stop hiding in the shadows because you’re too afraid to fail?
Do you go to a job every day that you cannot stomach? I Do.
Why do we subject ourselves to live like this?
We have bought into a dream that was sold to us when we were children. The dream was; go to school, go to college, get married, buy a house in the suburbs, have children and pretend to actually be happy when your depressed, because you’ve suddenly realized that you’re not doing what you love to do, or what you are meant to do and now there’s a slight chance that it’s too late to act on your dreams. And if you can’t fake happy the way your neighbors can then wash a Xanax down with a bottle of $7.99 chardonnay.
The word ‘menial’ no longer holds definition, as it now has become a part of me. I am menial. I am low level, tedious and bored. I pick and choose my job for the year in nomadic fashion knowing I won’t be there past 16 months if I’m lucky.
This isn’t freedom like the freedom I felt when I was sixteen on the corner with a cigarette in hand and pocket lint in the other. Some people will say, “You’re an adult, and this is life, deal with it!.” but they are wrong. I know life. I know pain, I know suffering, and I know that there has to be a better way to wake up.
I ask myself, what do I stay alive for? Right now I’m not sure. Don’t fret; I’m not going anywhere, I’m just thinking out loud.
My wife and I recently decided that we want to move Austin Texas from Buffalo New York. The two of us have never been there, but have heard great things. We’re giving ourselves one year from April 1st, 2018 to save up every penny and then we’re gone; Texas bound.
I cannot explain the sudden pull to the Lone Star State, but the attraction is real, and it is sexy. I know that I need change, a do-over. I’ve long despised New York State and promised myself when I was a kid that I wouldn’t die here, and I need to keep my word to my younger self; it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t. I don’t want to spit in the face of my chance to be happy.
I fear waking up in 20 years or so and completely regretting my life. I know that I will always be happy with my wife Andrea, but I can’t see going on much more like this.
I know that I want to write for a living, but I’ve become too obsessed with my day jobs that I’ve lost sight of the one true passion of mine, and that is being published. Nothing puts a smile on my face like seeing my words in print and day in and day out I neglect my writing because I’m playing with the depression in my mind.
I don’t even know what this post it supposed to do for me.
I haven’t submitted here in months.
It’s almost as if I have nothing left to say.
It’s almost as if I’m giving up on myself because it’s easier to give into complacency than perseverance.
Why do we torture ourselves?
Am I the only one who hates life because a better life is out there and I’m too scared to go for it?
I can’t fake it anymore.
Why do you fake it?
Do you do it for your kids or your significant other?
Some folks are okay with, “just making it work.” I can’t be okay with it.
I’m sitting on about 170,000 words of memoir, non-fiction and profile work and the megabytes and gigabytes that are stored, collecting dust while my chances of achieving my dream are growing slim.
I am the biggest hypocrite and phony that I know.
I have all the words and tools to make it and I sit here crying.
I remember writing these same words 6 years ago and I’m still writing these same words today.
The price that I’m paying for complacency right now is knowing that I’m absolutely sad because at this very moment while I’m typing these words into my laptop, someone in the world who wasn’t scared to fail just stole my spot in life.
And I’m still here crying writing about my common past that I’m even sick of hearing and writing about.
My mother has since moved on since her falling out from the family and she doing fine.
My father as long forgot about me, moved on and is mostly doing fine.
But here I am, growing older and still crying.
The price I’m paying for complacency is dying in front of my laptop screen.