Here, I used to paint pretty pictures with words. Here, I told one side of my story: some part of me that I wanted to be all of me, but that which I desire I never truly possess. I report my struggles, but even these are framed in one aspect of “me” which I show the world. An aspect of me I have not shown is addiction. It is exceptionally hard for me to talk about my addiction because it’s not glamourous like heroine, not as established in our awareness as alcohol. It seems softer in many ways, but for me this makes it more insidious. Images on a flat screen, moving pictures telling stories crafted by other’s. Stories I can pretend to be the center of. Narcissistic stories where I am the center of all major events, the grand savior of the play. It is to these “games” I am addicted.
I’m trying hard to set it it down. I want to keep this electronic story book box, but I know that music and crafting are low impact passions which have a greater end game: they take me somewhere unknown. I went to play games just now, but watched myself with surprise as I picked up my banjo and played John Prine’s “Hobo Song.” I thought of motivation, that lack of connection demotivates me in music and crafts. It’s hard to see that what I create now has unseen ends, more mystery. With games it’s easy to see where that road goes. Some folks are really good at knowing what they want and making a plan to get it, work now to obtain something in the future. I exist mostly in the present, not in nirvana but in need and desire. What do I want now? What’s the best thing I can get now? I am the kid who would take one oreo now. Future? what future? I want now.
I pick the banjo more, contemplating this. I repeatedly fuck up a song I “should” know and I feel discouraged. I want to play games all the more, and think about how the games are all winnable. Error, and a sense of failure brings up the “I’m not good enough” story in my own little life pursuit. I could instead pretend to be the savior of the world, or the universe.
I turned on the screen and the electric game box. It feels like an act of betrayal, to myself. Thinking about how I feel betrayed by others, is it actually because I betray myself? Now I write about it and when I finish, I don’t know what will happen next…