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@loripalminteriTweets by @loripalminteri
I Don’t Think I’m Going To Do This Much Longer
I don’t think I’m going to do this much longer. This. This blog. This website. Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. All of it.
Comedy. Stand up. Chasing the dragon. All that.
It’s not working out. It’s no ones fault, really. Besides mine. I could’ve/should’ve worked harder. You could always be better. That’s what’s so annoying about it. You walk away, you know you could have gotten better… and then who knows what’s to happen?
But we already know now. We already know it’s a road that leads to the place all roads lead to: dead ends. They’re all dead ends, in the end, really.
The problem isn’t quitting. The problem is doing something else. The problem isn’t not having enough heart. The problem is only being able to have so many stakes go through it. The problem isn’t you (okay, okay, sometimes it is you). The problem is there is more than one version of me. And the true problem lies in the truth that there are no versions of me left that believe in me. They’re all dead now.
I killed them.
I did that.
I don’t think I’m going to do this much longer. The holding your breath. The white knuckling. The petty angst.
At some point it’s just not worth it anymore. At some point you have to self analyze and self actualize. At some point you have to admit to yourself that this isn’t working out. That it isn’t mere politics, or injustice, it’s just you this time. It’s just you who missed the mark. You missed it.
And it’s mostly bad, especially sad, but it’s not an entire loss. There were moments where pride and pleasure peaked at the pinnacle of pure present living. Where the work of the past and hope for the future fueled a fleeting moment of perfection. And it was beautiful. It was special.
It’s ironic, isn’t it? That my cynicism towards the world and sarcastic wit is what got me into this mess, and it will also be the rope that pulls me out. The rope is sailors knot tied to a life preserver or in the shape of a noose. Doesn’t make a difference to me. Not at the moment it doesn’t, anyway.
None of it ever matters. How often does pride slander our ability to empathize? Ego pushes the right people away and draws in the people who are toxic, the ones who spew poison— lies, luring you to be like them, a falsified self.
I don’t think I’m going to watch you struggle much longer, my friends. Oh my friends, I feel you too. I see you, I feel you, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry I can’t help myself. I’d do anything to see you happy. To see you shine. Succeed. Send a smile to your stupid sarcastic faces.
I don’t think I want to be me anymore. The warning sign to future generations as to what happens when you decide you’re an artist. The person who wants so badly to be special but denies anyone who thinks it. Such a silly thing. A human who is so perpetually overwhelmed that does such a good job concealing it that people don’t think she feels at all.
I don’t think I can take it much longer. It’s not the empty feeling, it’s the hope. The hope that drops you and it hurts every fucking time. In reality, hope was always the most dangerous and desirable mistress. Hope dances with disappointment, however. They’re a team. Remove hope, remove disappointment.
I think I know all too well that I don’t know very much at all. And what I do know… well… it’s depressing, isn’t it? To latch onto failure. To know you’re not special but pretend you are anyway. To continue the path that you knows will be more painful than it already has been. Following a faintly lit star, a little sparkle in the dark. Where does it come from? Don’t let me find out. I’ll slit the throat of whatever parts of me sneak around with hope.
Then I can run.
But for now.
I don’t think I want to go anywhere at all. I think I want to stay here for a little while longer.