“I’m never sure which one people expect me to be.” (56 of 90)
“I have no idea if you think your making a film about Duke or Thompson. And I’m filling with hate and rage just thinking about it.”
I’ve been devoid of words the last few days.
Not for the normal reasons, I suspect. I’m not over-whelmed with work although there is work to do. I’m not emotionally exhausted although I’ve probably been thinking too much.
There is just not much around me. Although I know this is simply the post-SXSW depression that comes (which is different than the SXSars the befalls all my partying friends). You can’t be immersed within the chaos of 12,000 people for 10 days and not come back changed.
This particularly tired mental diatribe bores even me so I can only imagine what you’d do if you had a jackhammer and mallet, and a promise for the police that there would be no thorough investigation. These are not kind thoughts that I have about you, but I think we can all understand they are more about me.
“I’m not only no longer necessary, I’m in the way.”
The most annoying part about recovery is the part of the story that gets told in the silent whispers of my head. The story I hear about the other Brad. The more interesting Brad. The one without argyle sweaters and button up shirts and shoe polish.
The one who stomped through the world, recklessly and without fear. Without attachment. Without.
The stories I tell have gotten dimmer as I’ve moved through life. They are from two decades ago, some of them. They are not contemporary. Or me.
“I supposed my plans are to figure out some new identify. I am going to have to kill off one life and start another one.”
The worst part of the mind-fuck, of course, is that I’ve made my choice. In the end.
Surely one that I can change, or modify, at any moment. Addicts, after all, relapse. And crawl back into the woods.
Which makes even the escape a cliché, a reality made worse only by the knowledge that would I burn the sweaters and the shirts and the polish, my journey wouldn’t pick up where it was left off. That road is closed, un-traverse-able. My path would be different now, and I’m not ready – just yet – to go there.
I have some unfinished business. Stories that must be muscled out before.
The things that keep me tethered in this world.
“I’ll just lash together a few raw facts, a little bit of old Negro wisdom and this nightmare is over.”