This afternoon I spend time at the Worksource website looking for a job. Just in case something of interest was waiting for me there to find it. Nothing. There never really has been anything. An Architect Apprentice position once, requiring a degree in architecture, but in the 10 years or so I have used the site all there has even been, with this one exception, is garbage. I would literally rather throw myself off a cliff, and I am serious, then work for any job listed at Worksource in my area. And now they are hooked up with temp agencies. You know what temp agencies really are? Pimps. That’s right, legal pimps. They find desperate workers who don’t mind shit jobs, force them to stay with the temp agency, then send you out to the crappiest, shittiest, worst jobs in the world!
Yet our society tells is this what we need to do. As soon we reach the age of 16 or so, especially if we are a male, we need to get a job. Typically starts with a summer job. The brainwashing continues that they started in school. They don’t want independent thinkers like Einstein. They don’t want artists like Renoir. No, they want slaves, Whores to work. Cogs in the our so-called great machine of a country. They are the 1%, living in their fancy boats and homes, pulling the strings of those who rule us, pitting us against each other when we get out of line. They enjoy life, don’t know the meaning of the word work, do whatever the hell they want, and we work until we are old men and women in the hopes of some future and all-to-brief retirement future we rarely, if ever reach, and rarely, if ever can afford. Few do these days.
Well I may not know exactly who I am. But I know who I am not. I may not be Einstein or Renoir, but I am an independent thinker and an artist. Not as independent as I need to be. I still have some brainwashing to shake off my parents and my schooling. But at least I see this bullshit for the fly covered, worthless pile of crap that it is. But it doesn’t matter in the end. Because that is the really, defined by them, the bitter pill swallowed and believed by society. This is the reality of our world, our economies. In order to be independent of this really I have to live outside of society, and support myself somehow. Virtually impossible to do. I don’t know how to make my own clothes, hunt for my own food, and I have no little private part of the world to live in separate from society. So I am a prisoner like everyone else. The only difference between me and them is that I see the bars. The rest aren’t even aware they are there, or they think that this sort of living is normal.
This afternoon, in addition to looking for work and verifying my suspensions that this is not the path for me, I deleted my account at Sourceforge. I started a project there, The DREAM Project. A good idea. Something worth working on. But I could find nobody to work on it with me. So once again another part of the person I once was is released.
I used to listen to music to relieve stress, music was my therapy. Yet with recent happenings, music only brings me more pain. Music has betrayed me. I used to waste hours playing video games. I loved to explore new worlds. Some of the best times of my life were exploring a vast world like the one in Risen, or playing Deathmatch with my friends for hours in games like Halo. But I see video games for the time wasters and distractions they are. So I do not play them anymore. I used to define myself as a Christian. Defend my faith. But I have since come to realize it was never my faith, it was my parent’s faith. They passed it on to me. I see religion for what it is now, yet another trap, another way to brainwash and control the masses. I still retain my writing and drawing abilities. But I don’t venture into the subjects I used to. I used to eat my pain, addicted to potato chips and junk food, vegging out. I still veg out, but I am no longer addicted to potato chips. I am more restless, I veg out less than I used to, and now I exercise. I used to have a darker part of me, and alter-ego with a different name. I have since been slowly killing him. He was the video game, the level designer and the modeller. I no longer have this alter ego, although we all have our shadow parts. I no longer see my shadow as separate from me however. I used to get angry and strike out. Used to be depressed. Now get low, but bounce back. Now I am happier. Now I am more at peace.
So who am I? If I were to go back in time and meet myself even 4 years ago I don’t think I would recognize myself. If I went back further to when I was a teenager I have no idea as to how I would respond to the man I would become. Would it inspire me, or be the final, destroying blow? When a man turns his back on all he was, when he changes so completely, so thoroughly, who is the man that emerges? It is almost like the worm becoming the butterfly. How does the butterfly reconcile itself to the fact that now it is a beautiful thing that can fly? Probably it isn’t affected by troublesome introspection and thoughts to its nature. Probably it just lives in the moment, enjoying its wings and the flowers it tastes. How do I get to that state? How do I forget the worm and just enjoy this new form, whatever it is?
I have this lump in my chest I can not dislodge. I have this trip I intend to make. I can’t work my way through what happened, I have to hope I will be able to later. I can not stay here in fear of the “what-ifs.” Another transition, another change, another transformation awaits me. But I have no reconciled myself to the changes that have happened so far. How can I change even more? How do I get through this without loosing my mind or falling apart? What do I stand on when there is no ground?
If someone were to ask me who I am, I would have no answer for them. I simply do not know. I could say, “Artist and Independent Thinker.” But this isn’t really an identity, is it? I know who I am not. Or at least what I do not want to do. I know what things interest me. I have a tentative plan of something I intend to do. But beyond that? Just three words, probably will be engraved on my tombstone. “I don’t know.”