To fight for myself. I just don’t believe that my comfort or my pleasure, or my ego or my desire, or my wishes and visions are possible enough that it is worth the effort to fight for them, (to fight for myself). Whose effort? My effort. What else do I have but my own effort? Or not-effort? To effort or not to effort, to will or not will. To love? To seek to love?
I have lost my fight. The fight has been lost to me. The world too heavy. As if I have finally been defeated too many times. I am tired. Feel tired. Old. I have been feeling old. I just don’t believe in the potential for dreams to come true. For me to be happy. To be safe. To feel safe. To be loved. Cared about. I just don’t believe it.
I feel defeated. But to never have tried? To not know if I have tried? To throw the towel in the ring feeling defeated but not knowing whether I ever really stepped in, whether I ever actually fought for anything? Or whether I just took what was given to me, but then, when the fight came, when it took my resources to win, to turn an opportunity into a win, I gave up. I didn’t have the energy for anything that I could tell took me investing anything that I thought was valuable.
I am a series of failures. I got close a few times, but never got it, was never given a shot to fail. And when I was, I did fail. I didn’t follow though. But I did it with a smile on my face, with chagrin, with “trying my hardest”. But I always escaped. Ran away. It got hard. I ran away. It took my guts, my personal investment, it took me possibly failing. And I ran away to another opportuntiy. A “surer” win, looking for a romantic life. Something worth telling a story about. But then I didn’t tell the stories. I kept them inside. I held them in, bottled, because here was another way I could fail, if the stories sucked, nobody really cared, they didn’t mean to them as they meaned to me. I was crazy then. The life I felt, the potency of this life around me, the layers; just my own psychopathy: narcissism, and that was the worst; to believe you were beautiful.
To believe I was beautiful. I am the scum of the earth. I am the wrfetched abandoned. Why should anyone protect me? This is why I am walking these concrete streets with my mom pushing a shopping cart. Food stamps. Fuck that. I’m not on no food stamps. Travis can do it but I won’t. I can have a job, I can make money. Not enough to have what I want, but enough to just survive and yet it feel like it should be comfortable if I would just relax.
To will or not to will. I am not a prince. I am worthless. Evetyone else keeps telling me different, but then really the world doesn’t. It tells me I could be, I could’ve been, but doesn’t make me it. Can’t. There is nothing to pin onto to.