Never gonna make it

So, I'm sitting here and all I can think is that I'm never going to make it. I'll never succeed. I'll never make a splash. Not even a friggin ripple. I'm mediocre.

My line of thought remains unbroken. I can't focus on anything else. I want to look myself in the face and give it to myself: "You can do this. It doesn't matter what you're doing right now because you're still young. In fact, age doesn't have one iota to do with anything. You can be sixty and be discovered..."

And that's when I realise my problem. It's not if I'm talented enough. If I'm happy. Not if I'll change the world after my death. My greatest fear is that nobody will see my thing. My whatever, so long as I'm discovered and raised on a pedestal and admired and worshiped and idolized. I am a freaking fake. I'm not anything really, I have no _thing_. All I am is me, the guy who wants to do it. To make it. Whatever.

I'm boiling in a pot and my skin dissipates and evaporates as steam. Next to go are my muscles. They fill up with water and become all streched and decrepit. Their ribbed texture is marred by imperfect craters and rips. My flesh has become soft and spongy and slowly it is washed off by all the super-heated boiling action in my pot of self-flaggelation.

Harder, hotter, deeper into my body, the awesome forces of guilt, pity, and anger penetrate. I am cleansing myself of delusion and optimism. Now optimism, truly, is an evil force. It is the stuff of which we weave our blankets of self-delusion. We set the stage of our perception as we wish and hope the outcome satisfies. Only, it doesn't matter if the outcome pleases; if it doesn't all we need do is cast and recast the characters again and again as long until we get what we want. Only, by then, who knows what we were after in the first place.

My bones can't take much more heat. I can no longer stand strait any more. My right femur has bent and now I lean right in a twisted mockery of humility. Oh, I'm humble. Just humble enough to wish this torment was over. But of course it isn't. Hee hee. It's all funny. My bones, some 200 of them, are melting like the beewax candlesticks my girl gave to me just before we broke up. She told me she burned one from both ends, just like in the song, because she wanted to burn the feelings in side her. And here I am, burning from the outside in.

Almost gone. You know that conundrum about the tortoise and the hare that philosphers like to tell? The one where the hare is racing with the tortoise and the tortoise is ahead, but the hare is catching up. For every step the tortoise takes, the hare catches up by half of the remaining distance. And the questions goes: how long does it take for the hare to pass the tortoise? Answer: The hare will never pass the tortoise. The distance that separates them is constantly halved. The hare will chase that tortoise to infinity, the gap between them getting smaller and smaller, closer and closer to infinity.

That's how the endings always seem to me. Interminate.

Under everything else, I'm insecure.


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