I Try Hard
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!
That's how I feel sometimes. Nay, that's how I feel often. I scream often when I'm driving. It's the only place I can easily excuse being that loud.
Life is tough some times, ya know. So many feelings hidden underneath other feelings hidden underneath rather thorough, logical faux-explanations. Talk slower; that's about all I can recommend. That way, you'll say less trash that you'll regret later. Also, don't write your bile down – at least not as an e-mail or letter or some such thing. If you want to write some sort of esoteric poem filled with bile, that's pretty safe, but don't send a biley e-mail. If you really must send the e-mail, write it, leave it for a day, rewrite it, leave it for another day, and rewrite it one last time. Before you send it, have somebody smart check it over for you. If he or she approves, rewrite the e-mail one last time and send it.
I want a snack. I just ate oatmeal because I haven't done any chaotic cooking recently. Our freezer has plenty of chicken, but I have the opposite of plenty of motivation. Most of my negative feelings orbit around the theme "Failure." Am I a failure? Obviously, you don't define failure, but the Bible doesn't just give me a pat definition: "fail•ure |ˈfālyər| noun 1 yadda yadda thus-and-such." All the biblically successful people were really just failures who clung to Jesus. David was a wife-stealing murderer – AKA man after God's heart. Saul was the ultra Christian-killer, and then he became Paul, the guy who wrote most of the New Testament. Then there's Israel, God's people. She screws up royally all the bloody time. God even gets pissed at her, but she's still God's people.
It still doesn't seem clear to me. As an American in the 21st century, what am I supposed to do? Choose? What do I choose? I don't know what I choose. Mostly, I just cower. I don't know why I cower. I don't know what I fear. I fear failure I suppose. I want to write, but I cower away from it because it's one more dead end. I want to draw or paint, but those are also dead ends. I even want to be most any kind of engineer, but nobody hires me because . . ? . . I don't even know. I'm not the best interviewer. I don't have the fanciest resume. I'm not the smartest bloke. However, at the end of the day, I could be pretty useful doing most anything. I don't know why I cower.
Often enough, I think to myself that I'll just be the not-half-bad that I am. I'll just while away my time as a mediocre until my spool of chronology spins out. That's probably what holds me back in many areas: the resignation that I'm one more somebody – not even as noteworthy as a nobody. Not a special somebody mind you, rather, one more somebody who flows in the masses like so much tofu, soup, or something amorphous and of vague color. Even blades of grass are sharp and distinct. There's something very clear and tangible about dirt. Every tree, though it mixes with others, has a solid trunk. Tofu has this strange texture that isn't quite solid or liquid.
I don't want to think that I'm especially important, but I don't want to think that I'm just one more number on a few databases. I don't want to be famous, but I want to have a heart. I want my heart to burn for some things and not for others. I want to desire and strive. I want to fail (not BE a failure) occasionally, dust off, say, "well, son of a gun, that didn't work," and try again with my boldness left in tact. When I let the feeling in, I feel flooded by my fear of failure. When I ignore the feeling, I feel a constant nagging, like the buzzing of some insect you can't identify because it's stuck in some place you don't know.
Whenever I try to approach it (which is not often), the flood overwhelms me. I should probably leave that door open more so that some of the waters subside. I think I leave it closed so often because I fear that the waters of my feelings of failure are infinite. Or something like that. Oi. When I open those doors, so much floods in, too much. I don't know what God is trying to teach me. It's exhausting.
It's time for me to go tutor. Pray for me. I'm one more tired bloke trying to fight the good fight. I'm also not very smart. I try hard though. It may not be very much, but I try as hard as I can.
That's how I feel sometimes. Nay, that's how I feel often. I scream often when I'm driving. It's the only place I can easily excuse being that loud.
Life is tough some times, ya know. So many feelings hidden underneath other feelings hidden underneath rather thorough, logical faux-explanations. Talk slower; that's about all I can recommend. That way, you'll say less trash that you'll regret later. Also, don't write your bile down – at least not as an e-mail or letter or some such thing. If you want to write some sort of esoteric poem filled with bile, that's pretty safe, but don't send a biley e-mail. If you really must send the e-mail, write it, leave it for a day, rewrite it, leave it for another day, and rewrite it one last time. Before you send it, have somebody smart check it over for you. If he or she approves, rewrite the e-mail one last time and send it.
I want a snack. I just ate oatmeal because I haven't done any chaotic cooking recently. Our freezer has plenty of chicken, but I have the opposite of plenty of motivation. Most of my negative feelings orbit around the theme "Failure." Am I a failure? Obviously, you don't define failure, but the Bible doesn't just give me a pat definition: "fail•ure |ˈfālyər| noun 1 yadda yadda thus-and-such." All the biblically successful people were really just failures who clung to Jesus. David was a wife-stealing murderer – AKA man after God's heart. Saul was the ultra Christian-killer, and then he became Paul, the guy who wrote most of the New Testament. Then there's Israel, God's people. She screws up royally all the bloody time. God even gets pissed at her, but she's still God's people.
It still doesn't seem clear to me. As an American in the 21st century, what am I supposed to do? Choose? What do I choose? I don't know what I choose. Mostly, I just cower. I don't know why I cower. I don't know what I fear. I fear failure I suppose. I want to write, but I cower away from it because it's one more dead end. I want to draw or paint, but those are also dead ends. I even want to be most any kind of engineer, but nobody hires me because . . ? . . I don't even know. I'm not the best interviewer. I don't have the fanciest resume. I'm not the smartest bloke. However, at the end of the day, I could be pretty useful doing most anything. I don't know why I cower.
Often enough, I think to myself that I'll just be the not-half-bad that I am. I'll just while away my time as a mediocre until my spool of chronology spins out. That's probably what holds me back in many areas: the resignation that I'm one more somebody – not even as noteworthy as a nobody. Not a special somebody mind you, rather, one more somebody who flows in the masses like so much tofu, soup, or something amorphous and of vague color. Even blades of grass are sharp and distinct. There's something very clear and tangible about dirt. Every tree, though it mixes with others, has a solid trunk. Tofu has this strange texture that isn't quite solid or liquid.
I don't want to think that I'm especially important, but I don't want to think that I'm just one more number on a few databases. I don't want to be famous, but I want to have a heart. I want my heart to burn for some things and not for others. I want to desire and strive. I want to fail (not BE a failure) occasionally, dust off, say, "well, son of a gun, that didn't work," and try again with my boldness left in tact. When I let the feeling in, I feel flooded by my fear of failure. When I ignore the feeling, I feel a constant nagging, like the buzzing of some insect you can't identify because it's stuck in some place you don't know.
Whenever I try to approach it (which is not often), the flood overwhelms me. I should probably leave that door open more so that some of the waters subside. I think I leave it closed so often because I fear that the waters of my feelings of failure are infinite. Or something like that. Oi. When I open those doors, so much floods in, too much. I don't know what God is trying to teach me. It's exhausting.
It's time for me to go tutor. Pray for me. I'm one more tired bloke trying to fight the good fight. I'm also not very smart. I try hard though. It may not be very much, but I try as hard as I can.
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