Small Epiphany

A Small Epiphany

I was at home, surfing the web, when my parents called. Their car broke down, and I had to give them a ride home. I felt helpless and angry with myself when I heard my mother say, ‘We have to fix the car. We can’t afford to buy another one.’

At that point my stomach had a rotten feeling, like a heap of mushy grossness crept in and settled at the bottom, making me aware of its’ rancidness. I hated myself, my dreams and my ineptitude, and that my dreams keep me from all I’d want. I long to be a best-selling author, to change the world. Now I’d like to buzz their minds and write romance or pornographic novels. All I had ever hoped was that art and writing would make my life better, make me better, and make the world a little better than it is now. And I haven’t been able to do that successfully.

I am broke. Jobs for free don’t pay the bills but they do build an audience, and I am trying to do that now. Build an audience, a group of fans, and the right number of pervy deviates who’d collect and treasure my stories and art.

(Pause)

I began this on Monday last week, and I am beginning another week of chaos and madness.
It’s Sunday morning, Valentine’s Day, and I made love to a woman I settled for, probably fucking up her life indefinitely. I don’t have the money to leave her comfortably. And I dream of someone else who’s not dreaming about me any longer. Even if I leave, I am leaving to be along chasing my dreams, headlong flights into the unknown, hoping for the success and fame I’ve craved all my life.

A friend of mine always says, Jules, one day I may win the lottery, and I’m gonna take care of everyone, present company included.

I hate him saying that. It sounds so fuckin’ charitable.

Moreover, it sounds like pity and a comforting assurance: ‘You can’t do it on your own so I’ll give it to you so you don’t have to work for it.’

FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!

If I didn’t love the work, I’d leave the bullshit of all my dreams behind and accept being a teacher, scribbling poems and reading semi-illiterate works of slime from nonsensical children dying to make their own dreams come true.

I can’t cry.

I can’t wait.

And I can’t make myself sad or hide what’s the deepest truth inside me: I’m not normal, nor shall I ever be, and I’ll only make people sad here in Texas. Life for me will begin with a life elsewhere. Life for me will be a dream caught, a place where I don’t hide or look over my shoulder, when I can be uninhibited and absolutely honest without fear of reproach or breaking someone’s heart ever again. With that money will come the chance to give more than I receive, offer to help and grant their deepest joys and passions wings, and to see them rise above the stratus making their way into the happiness of tomorrow.

Maybe when I’ve seen my dreams arise like the ghost of the Spirit of God on Easter will I finally see a smile that is genuine, aching for all I want and dying to share the future with me, never looking back into the past or behind the sadness that always trails human lives.

Goodnight for now.

More later.

Watch for a portfolio.




~ j ~


(Originally written 02/15/2010)