Three things needed to happen to put down roots. A career for my spouse, a home of our own, and a career for me.
The first is done, the second is in progress. That leaves me. What do I want to do?
I want to help people (or hide from them).
I want to matter/ make a difference.
I don't want to be miserable.
I want to help provide for my family.
I've been told I should open a half-way house for all the crazies that find me. I could go into social work, but I think it might kill me to expose myself to that much suffering from other people.
I've also been told I should write. Write something, anything, everything. It's been a recurring theme from friends, family, neighbors for the last several months. It's written into my patriarchal blessing, if you believe in such things. I don't want to write anymore, though.
An off-hand comment about my writing sounding like a sociopath.
The content is unpalatable for the darkness no one wants to see. Unsharable for the secrets they hold.
One of my heroes, writer of the townrats theme song (Lost Prophets - Rooftops) got arrested for child molestation. How can I use it anymore?
I don't think I have any skill anymore. The talent has been hidden under a rock and wasted away. And yet, if I take things in threes as a sign, then the dozen reminders to write must not be ignored. The writer's group even landed in my lap (not literally, thank heavens).
I think I'd like to write about my muse. A set of song lyrics that follow that plot arch like Brad's did many years ago. I'd like to write about the logical conclusion of suicide. And yes, finish the piece that got me labeled a sociopath, because fuck you, Mr. Bear. You speak lies. It's the bit of lucidi/mindhacker people-analysis.
Writing does not pay bills, though, unless you're very persistent and very lucky. I still must find some other job to do. Something that doesn't involve panic attacks on a regular basis.
I should sleep. Sigh. If I can make it through the home-buying and Paychex process that'd be nice.
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