“I run and I run but I don’t get far…”

I stopped reading his blog some time ago.

Admittedly, I skim it, now and then.

But I’ve long since stopped reading.

Why?

Quite frankly, because I have 5 years of work, both online and on paper, that says all the exact same things.

Well, eerily similar, at the very least.

And, to continue with my usual candor:

He’s not a good writer [yet].

Oh, he’s outstandingly skilled.

Extremely technically proficient.

I will deny neither.

But he’s not “good” [yet].

If he were “good”, I’d digest his words for days, if not months, after I’d encountered them.

Instead, I consume them quickly and with some enjoyment.

As his namesake indicates.

Plus, it’s simply indicative of the rest of his life.

While he works arduously for the fine physique he has, he remains “unattractive”.

While he lives in the most admired part of the USA [if not the world], he feels lost.

Yet, he’ll never bring himself to leave because that’s where all those who are still seeking external attention and validation reside.

We’re all comfortable on a bed of nails if we’ve grown up sleeping on needles.

I know; been there, done that.

Even the booze, drugs and smoking seem hollow to him.

Because he perceives them to be integral to being an artist.

When, in actuality, we artists do those things because we’re shitty at making decisions [see my post regarding Maslow], as compared to most.

I don’t spend all night staring at porn because the real beast that needs feeding is too busy hammering against my ribcage like the prison bars they are to it.

I don’t spend much time with the women that fly out to meet me because I’m in the corner of a bar scribbling furiously in a moleskin notebook as I ignore lewd photos and texts enticing me to return home.

I drink so I keep myself from deleting everything in a fit of self-loathing at the behest of the echoes of my father’s voice telling me nothing is good enough.

I smoke so I have something to slow my fingers as the words spew out of them like the vomit from the emotional bulimic I am.

I’ll forgo my usual cryptic style here:

I am not throwing stones at Delicious Tacos.

I am hurling rocks at a mirror with a 6 year old reflection.

I finally learned approval and validation come from within.

I learned that I could compose “Stairway To Heaven”, write “Notes From Underground” or record “Louder Than Hell”:

And my family would still never give me what I need.

I pray, Truly, he learns this, too.

In conclusion, I write this to aid and enlighten— both he and countless other men of great potential.

Should it be misinterpreted as an attack, a defamation or even a slight:

Mea Culpa.

I have failed.

It wasn’t my first failure.

It won’t be my last.

Ω