I reached enlightenment about something earlier today, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was. Sleeping until 2 PM after weeks of 2-3 hour shut-eye interludes will probably have that affect. Needless to say—I’m refreshed to death. Or maybe it’s just a gorgeous day outside.

I’m writing a lot more these days but my poor blog has fallen to the wayside. I apologize for that; it’s been on my mind. Chicken and Fish were on my mind watching Sarah Paulson on American Horror Story, but more in tune with “oh you’ve got to be kidding me”. There’s no such thing as a new story, but sometimes I like to kid myself I guess. Whatever, her character is very good so at least I’ve come up with one idea that has wide-ranging potential.

It’s exhausting, writing from nothing and for money simultaneously, but unlike Chicken and Fish (apparently), it’s new. I don’t think I ever ran into the hurdle of “what am I trying to say?”, because I know many of my world-views; hazardous thoughts I try to stay away from these days. Have you heard Ebola’s in New York? I have too, about 17 times in a single day—something’s spreading, alright. And I could help spread that with my writing, and maybe I have by mentioning it, maybe I already have by listening to word-correct and capitalizing the E to usher in authority, realness, fear, respect. Sometimes it’s extremely hard to divorce my political thoughts from my fiction, but damned if I don’t try.

So instead of asking “what am I trying to say?”, I’m asking “what am I saying?” I’ve spread my words from this blog, printed them and thrown in people’s hands, and asked for reader’s take. The answer? Absurdity. My stories, for the most part, don’t aim at some ephemeral emotion so long-lost that we’ve forgotten how to feel it. Nah thanks, I’ll leave that to the severely-brooding writers—of which I belong, too, but I’ve employed an extremely silly side to write over my depressed amblings that stumble around the dark until they find some light to cling to before it evaporates. That’s life, that’s simple. The unexplainable, the events that when deduced come up with the same question marks as when scratched at—those are what I like. It’s easy to find an answer when you want one, but what about those limitless things that don’t have any footholds, no matter how hard you try to find one? What if the answer is “we’re human, we’re weird. That’s why.”? So simple, but something not many are willing to settle on. There has to be something more…but not for this guy. I’m blissful in my willful ignorance.

I’m writing technically these days, some B.S. for an IT staffing website. See that last sentence? How it carries the cynicism about working for the site? The sentences for her convey the same chagrin, I can’t hide the emotions—it’s always been a flaw. It’s made me a terrible businessman. It’s made me an awful employee. I’ve been called a “rogue” by former employees because when working for people I disagree with, I become an asshole—a tool. A wrench. In their plan. It’s made me a terrible match for those with exerted power over others. I see unfairness where some don’t, where some won’t, and I call it out. It’s simply control on my part, or some attempt at it. My protests in real-life are the total sum of how I perceive emotion, people, and life—we’re catching a raw deal. My writing is absurd. Maybe that’s the enlightenment I reached earlier, I know how I act in spite of it all. My wrench is hammered down. My absurdity exists in some scrambled place just above my head that I try to catch every now-and-again in an attempt to entertain somebody, maybe myself. I can’t change how people think of me, so this rogue will continue to swindle people into believing they’re more talented than they choose to believe, that they exist in a world with overwhelming potential and questions worth not-answering; and they should focus on what they’re currently doing.

What’s enlightenment, anyway? Self-awareness? Self-actualization? Self-1000 different other attached words? Who cares. Do what you need. Do what you will. Will what you need. Dig what you do.


Author: antbrov

Fiction | Magical Realism | Introspective Write > Edit > Hate > Learn > Write...

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