Sometime yesterday afternoon, I booked the first few freelance jobs for the year. What that means is that my self-imposed freelance break is now officially over, and it’s time to go back to coming home from work to work some more, and sleep very little.
This is kind of really, really awesome. And for whomever has to live/work with me, this is the greatest news of the year; they won’t have to listen to me whinge because I just won’t be around anymore.
As enticing as the idea of free time is, I just don’t know how to use that time efficiently. The past few months have been tough mentally because a lot of that down time has been spent in my own head, reevaluating things, pondering, and generally looking really deep into my belly button for answers to questions that don’t have any. Doing laundry just doesn’t sound like a worthwhile task to check off when there’s such a big mess in my head. Borderline solipsism, no?
I’ve been re-reading my well-worn, and angst-defaced copy of Henry Rollins’ ((full disclosure: my HS senior AP art portfolio was built around my fascination with Henry Rollins. Judge away.)) Roomanitarian. Most of its original appeal has evolved and grown to suit my adult angst-ridden self. This bit in particular, which has been highlighted AND underlined at different times (in case I’d temporarily forgotten what either mark meant?), sums up the past few months perfectly:
My main goal is to stay alive. To keep fooling myself into hanging around. To keep getting up every day. Right now I live without inspiration. I go day to day and do the work because it’s all I know. I know that if I keep moving I stand a chance. I must keep myself going until I find a reason to live. I need one so bad. On the other hand maybe I don’t. Maybe it’s all bullshit. Nothing I knew from my old life can help me here. Most of the things that I believed turned out to be useless. Appendages from someone else’s life.
Everything I have I would give to not know what I know. To not feel emptiness as my constant companion. To not look into this room and be reminded why I’m in it. I’m not getting enough air. The room feels so small all of a sudden. It’s pathetic to be this lonely and know it. To keep breathing. To be silent and alone. And to know.
– Henry Rollins, Roomanitarian
My Ma calls it selfishness, and my best friend calls it melancholy. I just feel dead inside.
With that said, I’m glad I can finally get the hell away from my head and focus on something worthwhile. Hopefully the red cases keep coming for a while. But as I always say: I am only happy when I’m angry; unhappy is the only happy I am comfortable with these days. So who knows how long that’s gonna last?