Blast from the past
Going through my old photos the other day brought up some memories. One picture in particular made me grin, and since so many people mention this point in my bio I figured I’d share it with you all. Be sure to pay particular attention to the belt buckle.
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Welcome To My World.
My life has never been normal. Never.
Even these days I live a pseudo-psycho existence on the fringe of a world most people never even glimpse, but one which feels more comfortable for me than a supermarket.
Nightclubs.
They are a universe unto themselves, where alcohol, violence and drugs can run rampant and the odd ones out are those who choose to remain sober and calm. How strange that a person could become so used to this lifestyle that to depart is like leaving behind a part of yourself, and yet that is how I always feel when I try to separate from this world.
It’s not that I crave violence – far from it; there’s nothing I could imagine yearning for more than to live in peace, mainly with myself – but the outside world, the one most feel is normal, seems totally alien to me, like being on another planet. I am not designed to exist in such a place.
And so recently, despite owning two businesses and working hard to launch my writing career, I have found myself yet again in the midst of this world, among people as broken as me. Not the clients, they are from the normal world; no the ones I bond with are those whose warped sense of belonging is the same as mine. Stepping back into this life is like coming home, the violence and stupidity around me are as nothing compared to the sense of family which exists in such places among such conditions.
I will inadvertently come to hate this world once more, of that I have no doubt. There is no true love here, just comfort, and dealing with what I face each night is no way to live a life, but I fear it will always be a part of me, despite yearning for it not to be. A friend, a man closer to me than a brother, once told me this life was in my blood and I would never escape it. At the time I laughed his statement off and proclaimed I could give it up at any time, and yet whenever I try I find reality too boring. It’s like living a two-dimensional life after seeing all three, knowing that even though I might interact with these people, I will never be one of them because I simply don’t know how to.
My writing is the bridge.
Through the words I put on a page I communicate with those who exist in a world I don’t understand; I give them a glimpse of what I see and know, but which I have twisted through fiction. In this way I can exist in both worlds without feeling like a fraud, without fearing that people will realize what I am. It is like a lifeline I cling to, an umbilical cord which nourishes me with hope and yet something I also need to feed with my life and experiences in order for it to survive.
This is what drives me. This is what I yearn for. And though I might never make a penny nor have fans screaming my name, if a single person reads my words and is touched by them it has been a life well lived.
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