Warning, this is very long (no pun intended). It's something that's been on my mind since January, & I guess I'm now expressing another part of 'it'.. But yet, even after it's been written.. It doesn't even feel like it touched half of what I feel. FEEL. Maybe I need to shout it? I don't know. So. Thank you, in advance, for adhering to my warning about its length. I'm a verbose, self-centered whiner. Enjoy.
Here I AM. ENTERTAIN ME. You knew it, didn't you. From the bottom of your gut, you knew. Inside. Deeply. Burning. That feeling. That unexplainable, 'it' feeling. That maybe something you thought about suddenly happened in the objective reality, & it makes you say "oh God! Oh Wow!"--It would, if it didn't happen so often to the point of you wondering if life is just a game, a stage, a stage-game, or everything for you to make a deal.
...Isn't that such a lovely, rambling, incoherent faux-deep introduction? Hi, I'm NotWhereItsAt. Been browsing PersonalityCafe on & off several months; mostly about being an INFP, lurking to find a solidarity when 'it' gets too lonesome, checking up on being 4w5, y'know. Usual stuff.
However, in one of my impulses, I decided to make a profile & post something because for weeks I've been writing..Which isn't usual, I'm a writer. It's my full time job that I'm not getting paid for. Coffee helps produce massive amounts of confusing gibberish to be sent out to one of them magazines..You know the type of magazine I'm talking about. Sending out works to one of those magazines in the hope of being paid for them. Because I've unwillingly become part of the starving, struggling, depressed, raving lunatic Syd-Barretesque, Kafkaesque whiner that isn't making ends meet to afford his mother money for medicine, to get his family into a better home, or at the very LEAST, pay off what he owes his grandmother for the years he's borrowed money to buy cigarettes.
He drinks cigarettes & smokes coffee to pass the time.
He figures he could get a job. Four years ago he had a job that paid $10 an hour. He quit that job 'cause little bratty boy didn't like working 3 measly hours 2 days a week; complaining that it robbed him of his creativity, made him feel like a zombie. Bratty boy would willingly take that job again, managing to still feel the same, but somehow able to suck it down. Probably like he'd be able to suck down the overwhelming guilt & betrayal he feels whenever he writes something that caters to 'the way' stories & poems are socially acceptable.
Yes, our little bratty boy (god I ramble a lot don't I, but, don't mind it. Simply click out. This is just for my release, I suppose, to say this to a bunch of strangers. Because I can't say this to anybody; friends, family, nobody. So, once again, strangers are a crutch. WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD) is terribly frustrated with himself to the point of walking around in circles. In a square-shaped shower. Walking around in circles in a square-shaped shower while muttering how everyone just wants to play games with him. Evil mass-marketing corporate scum. All the while, Bratty Boy constantly refers himself to "I Want To Hold Your Hand" by The Beatles, & how it's documented they created that song SOLELY for the American market.
Bratty boy would LOVE to use that principle to create a story, a poem, a novel, what have you; to be accepted. Encouraged. Welcomed. Paid for. So maybe, just maybe, all his drunk cigarettes & smoked coffees wouldn't be in vain. But no. Little Miss Bratty INFP Boy has to be one of the few folk to have a conscience. DARN GADNANGNABBITMEISTER! Isn't there anything more worse than a conscience! How dare he--this Bratty Boy of long hair, of Aboriginal descent, of sitting around WRITING instead of being PRACTICAL use to his family--write for HIMSELF instead of writing to PLEASE others!
Bratty Boy picks up the hints the universe drops him every now & then. To never give up on your dreams; to write for you, please you, & then, people will enjoy it because its honest. Bratty Boy, cannot, however, understand how he's supposed to merge his naturally creative mind (that constantly leaves him wondering if he should off himself based on his secluded, delirious, paranoid, alone, frightened alienation unto himself & others; simply because he's always been MORE than different than ANYBODY he's come into contact with, & by the way of several years, has now rendered him a silent, boring, energy-draining MUTE that just grunts & shuffles around, slamming things & reciting rap lyrics. Still creative beyond belief, though, & is SOMEHOW playing the imaginary organ on Like A Rolling Stone inbetween figuring out what to write for The Lovely Strangers who will no doubt wonder why they read this far, & why he couldn't have used this energy to write a STORY for other people instead of expressing his selfish self) with the needs & wants of Others. THE OTHERS.
The General Massive Audience that wants coherent, structured, simply-written & obvious tell-tale stories to read.
What the General Mass wants: "This is a story about a little boy & girl, the author tells about their respective upbringings. Boy & girl grew apart as they grew up, though one of them was still in love with the other. The story would be told in this plain, simple manner that is easy to understand. A way of showing, magnificently, the events unfolding in a concise manner. The author will even throw in signs of both his/her imaginations & the imaginations of the characters through clever sentences, paragraphs, & formatting."
What The Bratty Boy writes: "--Contemplate this a moment. The philosophal organism said: Desirous unknown satisfaction thru xylophone windows jingling, their shafts! Gloriously-silhouette chimes! Swinging in the sun's jades! That way is where you will be lead by in approximately last week, have real time by good!
Turning around, shuffling cautiously two steps to the right, brushed its teeth, & went to bed. On the search for the Insanity Factory. Insanity Factory?"
Bratty Boy cannot for the death of him figure out the corrolating solution between shaving off his literary (& artistic) need to defy the conventional methods of storytelling, knowing full well that while the counterculture's revolution WILL happen, Bratty Boy will have to pull a Bob Dylan in order to achieve the grand-master scheme of restoring imaginative freedom within a mentally/spiritually/creatively-draining industry.
Bratty Boy doesn't know what to do. Nor is he asking anybody what to do. Or how to acheive it. Or words of encouragement. Bratty Boy is a big boy. BRATTY BOY CAN DO IT ALL BY HIMSELF, SEE. Bratty Boy wants a cookie, a baseball cap with a propeller on it, a pat on the head, & everybody in the whole wide world to tell him that "Awww, you're not special! You're just a Jerry's Child." Because Bratty Boy doesn't know who he is. Why he writes what he does. Why he listens to what he does. If it's even worth it, at the end. Is the Artistic Revolution worth it? Is Bratty Boy's Generation (17-25-something year olds, he's guessing) even worth having its message spread, for the past generations & future generations to adhere? WHEN will Bratty Boy sick of being ignored to the point he finds the drive necessary to put EVERY literal ounce of sweat he has into writing story after story poem after poem & forcing it down everyone's throats that maybe just MAYBE all the ways he's felt alienated WASN'T in vain but the loneliness was ala Kafka NECESSARY, in retrospect?
Dammit. It doesn't help that I'm a Libra. Or self centered. I mean. I focus on myself a lot, true. But so that I can receive money for my efforts to help out others, I think. Or am I bullshitting myself & everyone? Blagh.
Welcome to being human, Bratty Boy. How's it feel?
I'm sick of myself.
I'm tired of being sick of myself.
I want a cigarette.
I want more coffee.
I need to forget the laws of life & run down the street, guns in hand. Drunk.
I need to become a drug dealer (because it's a fact that you can get more money dealing drugs than you can working a 9-5 job).
I need to help my mother's chronic pain.
I need to be a better person.
I don't know how to become a better person.
I need to get my family out've this neighbourhood.
This neighbourhood has stolen me of my creativity.
Strangers on the internet manage to make me feel alienated for being myself.
Questions like "Are you high?" are bullets to Bratty Boy.
Awkward silences in conversation after Bratty Boy says something 'weird' are knives.
Bratty Boy needs to pull a Kurt Cobain after James Joycing the crap out've 1984's now-reality.
Syd Barrett? Leo Cohen. Highway 61 Love Sick. Everybody together. Face make birth mad red. Everybody agree? Asylum, forum, internet. Girl impress. Need a girlfriend. Everybody agrees.
I don't know what to do.
I'm done writing, now.
You can sigh easily.
& return back to your internet browsing.
Sorry for taking up your time. This is VERY valuable information for the betterment of all society towards a more BENEFICIAL progressment in understanding one another! Yes it is, Bratty Boy. Yes it is.
Here's a cookie. Now go be a Jerry's Child & listen to Like a Rolling Stone & be the naive little champ you are there, nawwww who'sa cute little Jerry's child. You are! YES you are! Yes you are!
...This question is geared towards INFPs, but could be for any type (or person, even) in general, but.. Do you feel like I feel? I mean, I'm certain you are. But I'd like to know. Know what the best part about it is? I'm so skeptical that I'll probably believe you, while simultaneously wonder if you're just saying that. Is that a common occurance between people? That half-believability-but-may be-true-but-maybe-isn't really-but-could be syndrome?
Doesn't help that I'm hung up on an triple Gemini ENTP. Psft. Silly, unillogical life. OH DEAR GOD A USER'S FIRST POST ON A WEBSITE WAS ABOUT HIMSELF INSTEAD OF *GASP* OFFERING ADVICE FOR OTHER PEOPLE IN NEED OR OFFERING THOUGHTS! The world will now explode, BAM! Goobuurrrooiiggh, nee'eeerrr LOOKOUT CHARLIE, SHE GON' DIIIIEE!! *NErrr* BAAAnnnnggwoooooshh Ahhhhhhhh! o.O