To most of the people that read my blog, follow me on Twitter or have friended me on Facebook, it most likely looks like I’m a decent guy who’s self employed and has his stuff together. Except for maybe those occasional rants I go on that makes me exactly the same as the Jesus freaks condemning me to hell every time I skate past them on Wilshire, the irony. For the few that know me better, maybe even better than I know myself, they’d probably say I’m a lot like what you see online, down-to-earth, positive and loving, with the occasional, “holy sh!t he’s crazy” moments. It’s a fine line. For me, genius loves company, the company of chaos.
I drive myself and others close to me crazy with unreal expectations, dreams that are bigger than attainable and fantasies that are better off in Hollywood. The quiet in that storm for me is in writing. Sometimes I just need to say things, to let them go from within the chaos of my mind. They’re never directed towards anyone specifically, most of the time just stemming from the combination of personal frustrations with myself and seeing others put themselves through their own frustrations, which is exponentially multiplied by my involvement in social media under the seemingly 100s of aliases I seem to have. There are times when it’s just a simple sentence or two, even under the 140 character limits of Twitter. And then there are times when I can ramble forever. In either form, it’s as if the paper is listening to me as I spill the ink from my pen. Or as if the screen of my BlackBerry is nodding with acknowledgment as I press the keys and see the text form as it fills the screen.
They give comfort that no person has been able to. How odd is that? I love people, their idiosyncrasies, meeting new people and just socializing in general, but something as materialistic as a BlackBerry screen or a notebook provide me with something that is intangible.
I guess that makes me weird but I don’t care because it helped me sleep last night. And everyone knows I don’t get much of that.