Tough Realizations

It’s tough to wake up at thirty years old and see nothing but the free fall in front of you.
To know the path you’re about to travel on is so far from the beaten one, it hasn’t even been added to Google Maps yet.
It sucks to know you are a small percentage as good at the thing you are paid to do on a daily basis, that you know you were simply not meant to do, as you are at this craft you believe you were built for in which nobody pays you a dime to do. Yet you still do just as regularly.
It’s not easy to make that tough realization and keep moving forward. To write everyday when you’re not always sure if anybody even reads it or gives a fuck.
“This might not work” and “The editor may not accept this or the intended reader may completely misinterpret this” are tough realizations to come to.
Realizing you’re so much better at writing than you are at talking about the fact you write is a tough realization to make when people bring up your writing.
It’s difficult to know you do so from a place so deep inside you could not possibly let up, not even if someone paid you to try.
I’m so tired of eating Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner but it tastes better than knowing I sold my soul for some retweets on a bullshit listicle I wrote to spoon feed trendy hipsters.
It’s tough to realize what a glutton for punishment I am and how okay I am with sitting with myself in silence. Because that is when my best work is done, it’s where I feel most comfortable for a multitude of reasons that run as deep as the Nile.
The most painful of realizations have come to me after years of instead blindly rationalizing.
I gave myself every excuse in the world for not doing better.
I justified my every unjustifiable act without flinching.
It hurts to be on your public transportation commute home on a Friday and think you see your buddy you grew up with way back when but then you realize it can’t be him because buddy from way back when is dead.
Realizing you have grown out and away from all of those you grew up with and around stings like all hell. They’re simply called growing pains.
Knowing you have no energy, time or enough fucks left to give to pretend you are someone you are not for a woman or a night of fun is a tough realization to make.
Especially when you realize how often the best looking females fall for the fake.
I could run that game if I wanted, I’d just hate myself more than she would on the day she realized our entire life was based off of a barrage of lies.
It’s tough to realize your going to be alone until the day you meet the woman who was literally hand crafted for you and accepts you for you, through and through.
Trying to be someone else never worked for you, me, nor anyone else for that matter.
Need I remind you of the time you and millions of other twelve year old’s bleached your hair just because Eminem released two of the best albums that will ever reach the air?
To know you have to leave where you were born and bred as well as conceived and raised is not easy. I keep trying to leave quietly, without a splash so to speak but the current seems to always wash me back ashore at the place I’m so tired of recognizing as home.
Realizing you are a writer is the worst thing that could happen to you other than being a writer who doesn’t write. That is of course until it becomes the best thing that has ever happened to you, which is the day you realize it’s what you were all along, you just hadn’t come to terms with it until then.

