Echolalia

 (Echolalia). 

I don’t remember writing most of these blogs. They’re likely the byproduct of manic episodes. I sure do miss those. Life moved a million miles per second. Now it remains stagnant, though I now age like lightning. Alas. 

I do recall that I often had fantasies about being someone important one day. Maybe I’d attempt to publish some poetry and become a great poet. Do they even make those anymore? Like legitimate poets? I’m sure they do, but they are not me. Or, maybe I’d be an extravagant essayist and catch the eye of some publishing house. Alas, I’d have to write, and this funk I reside in currently remains a bog, and I've grown into a shitsack who no longer cares enough to masturbate in that particular way. Besides, Ai is on the verge of rendering this practice obsolete. 

Sometimes I still dream of being a renown musician. Tried it. Ended it. Still don’t know what happened, but it was my fault it ended abruptly, because I didn’t feel I was good enough. Never did. Damned superego. So it went with my marriage. 

The question I tend to reflect upon is: good enough for whom? The answer I tend to burp out: Who knows? What I do know is I’ve wasted a lot of my life visualizing some ideal set of circumstances for myself, and I still do. This is not how one ought to live, in the moment, in the grand scheme of things. This is precisely not how to be present. The irony: I’ll forget writing these words, too. 

Nonetheless, I’ve spent too much time observing people I love as they try to be what others want or expect them to be, which is problematic in that whole formulation, and though I’m learning to alienate myself on levels I’ve not accomplished before, I cannot help but to observe how I observe. This is intentionality. 

More than that, it’s extremely hypocritical to even think this way, that is, making unsubstantiated judgments about a variety of my observations, seeing as I’m presently fantasizing the current words I’m smacking into my phone to mean anything or that they even matter in the slightest at all. And, I’m back to the beginning. 

In the beginning was the word. Do we need the word to understand the beginning, or to merely describe it? Alas, this is my poem, and it came to me like lightning.