I think that I may have underestimated the value of a having a job so infuriating that I would spend my days in a near-uncontrollable rage, cursing the stupidity of those around me, and longing only for the sweet embrace of my bed at the end of a day. For all of the nonsense which I endured, I managed to focus the natural processes of my Bi-Polar Bears away from me, instead of allowing them to consume me like I’d encouraged since the arrival of my illness. This time away from other people has, in many ways, been exactly what I’ve needed, but I’ve begun to see that it has not been everything that I had dreamed that it might be. Too much time alone with my thoughts has reminded me of all I chose to left behind, back when I had the courage and the will to do so. Getting back into writing as therapy, which has always been where I have found and tapped the magic, has forced me to unlock those certain doors which I had bolted shut, and face the seething monsters that lurk within. It was easy to remember that I once wrote every day, and that I always had a hotline to my muse, but what I seemed all too eager to forget was just how much I suffered for the glory of a single story. It stared me in the eyes and told me it’s name, but I never gave much thought to reality that when I was happy, I never seemed to feel the need to write. And despite my occasional grumblings, and indeed, the somber tone so far of this very piece, I am actually quite happy in very many ways.

If I was making money with this blog, I would have fulfilled almost all of my lifelong dreams, and allowed myself to feel, for just a fleeting time, much as a scent caught briefly in the wind, that everything would be okay, and that it wasn’t all for nothing. Everything I’ve ever done has led me to the next, like a treasure hunt with hidden map, that I’ve been following in good faith. In the moment when I’ve just made whatever mind-boggling decision that has caused both myself and all who name me friend to take a step back and wonder if Tex Batmart has finally bitten off more than he can chew, I try to carry on, hoping that my growing record of paid-off gut decisions will keep true. And looking back, it has been those painful moments of uncertainty, right before the next big thing to come along, which have been the hardest part of being me that I have been obligated (by myself, for sure) to endure. And then I will take my steps into a bright and jarring new reality, and allow myself a smug, self-congratulatory moment before putting all the doubt behind me and learning something new about myself. I’ll then meet people who my future self would absolutely have to know, or learn a skill I wouldn’t have picked up anywhere else, and then the crazy impulse which had driven me in to yet another corner would begin to look as unfailing as it always tended to in hindsight. Within a few months of arriving at my final (at least for a little while) destination, I would begin to loose my grip on all the nagging hours spent in twilight questioning if this would be the time when I finally failed.

Of course, history is written by the victors, and I’ve created a narrative within my head which compliments my acts of sheer insanity by lighting them in hues of prophecy. Every little victory is just reinforcement of the stupid gambles I gladly take when faced with no-win situations. If I were to fail, the story might look very different from the one that, even now, is being whispered to me (1) not literally, 2) obviously by Morgan Freeman) as I succumb to this next round of doubt. The benefit to the all-or-nothing nature of my bets against the universe is that, were I to fail, I probably wouldn’t have to hear the cracking failure of my personal Fate abandoning me. One of these days it will all blow up in my face, and I will have nowhere left to turn, but even now, as I face my own accuser, and find him to be me, I have bled the poison just enough to get me through another day. I’ve always said that I am the worst at planning, because once I’ve put my goals on paper, I feel that they are done, and then I never get back around to actually doing them. It’s nice to know the same principle applies just as well to the other side of it: If I can draw out psychic venom from my soul and wrap in up in fancy words, maybe the harm I seek out for myself will be equally negated. I tip my hat you, Lord Master of Apathy!

That still leaves me wondering what the future has in store for me, and every time I’ve tried to force the issue, and skip ahead a page or two, I swear that the whole process comes grinding to halt, if only to remind me that even though I’ve got the concept, I need the muscle memory. And now I’ve made the connection between my entire life, and encapsulated it in my son’s one mar war with penmanship. Little truths line my jacket pockets until they’re overflowing, and words of wisdom tumble out, spiraling down like tiny tattered dreams to be swept up along with all the other spoiled debris when they hit the floor.

I know this post’s been kinda heavy, so I want to end it with a joke. It’s one of my all time favorites, and it kind of sums of the story of my life to date:

Three men walk into a bar. The fourth man ducks.

-Tex