Not for you, for me. Documenting a feeling.

I'm soo embarrassed to like cars, to love them, to be obsessed with them. I felt like I've wasted my life, spent my youth on acquiring useless knowledge, forming invaluable opinions, absorbing pointless and childish experiences. After nearly 25 of my 30 years on earth focused intensely on the observation of the automobile I have yet to develop usable and/or self sustaining skill regarding the automobile. Instead I draw from all other aspects of life, weigh heavily on loved ones, and slowly sponge resources from outside of cars into my own. This mass of resource spent on half completed projects, illogical energy expenditures and at best, mild entertainment for others. Great contribution, a return on the investment of people, places and things forming my current self, has proven to be unprofitable. I have a huge automotive resumé. I've done quite a unique number of things, touched, seen, screamed at, bled on, swore at, beat down, cheered, cried, smiled, laughed and fell in love with a near infinite number of interactions with vehicles. I'm fucking obsessed. It's never changed, from near 2 years old, I've never known otherwise. I've grown sick of it, an exhausted train unable to free itself from it's tracks. It's gone from a lovable quirk to a personality flaw. Idiots seem to repeat the same problems over and over, rather than fixing them. I retain this repetitive process, inspiring love through admiration of obsession developing utter disappointment from a shear lack of progression past this obsessed subject. It continues to create and ruin it's own relationships. Taking care of myself is a skill I have yet to retain. My health suffers, I fatigue muscle mass, retain weight, grow ill and unfit, consumed by an internal battle in hopes to shift away from obsession to normality. I lose the feeling of beautiful life as I step away from my interest. Days become more grey, melancholy, static. The dynamic contrast of emotion, the extremes of happiness are gradually more consumed by smaller scale of feeling, limited more so to the lower end of the spectrum. Somewhere in the sadness and gloominess area. This experiment to mature has back fired. I've cultivated a now, almost inextinguishable, guilt and embarrassment for my obsession. Unable to wave away the fog of my transportation fetish, I remain as a ghost in a limbo of internal argument and self loathing, no where near Las Vegas. My choice to remain clean from the vacation of drugs and alcohol aides in the ability to focus clearly on self deprecating thoughts. This emotional stale-mate expends more currency of youth on non-progressive passing of time, each minute older, each minute more lost, sad. Innocence carries a certain blind braveness. Wisdom is not age, time spent is not a measure of success, success is. I feel unsuccessful, irresponsible and irreparable. A child of growth in a declining mans shell. This little personality, bouncing around in a big empty container, unable to truly reach the pedals, unable to control. Experience needs to attribute to self improvement, I have become worse. Self observation is stupid, wisdom is worth nothing. Inspiration, motivation are the true factors of great worth. Getting older doesn't mean you're smarter, more memories to forget. Passing days, tickets of youth spent, less and less motivated I become far from drawn to fresh input. Curling up, hiding from my own thoughts, hiding from myself, responsibility, commitment, seems to be the reality I choose as a default. I'm embarrassed about being old, I'm embarrassed that I'm scared of death, yet all to eager to just get it over with. Awareness isn't a solution. I'm aware I should wake up, expending my energy on positive attitude, new moments, and happy intakes of the world. Awareness doesn't solve the difficulty I have creating a good day. Experience is exhausting, as each decision, each moment becomes less obvious, less instant. Black and white decisions, divide into endless shade between. Missing innocence to fuel a love of life. I'm just embarrassed, guilty and afraid of everything now, including the reasons I enjoy interacting with the world.

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1 comment

  • We’re not so different, you and I.

    • Anonymous