Why does escapism seem so glorious? Wouldn’t achieving something be better? What is it that is keeping me—you—us from conquering whatever this feeling is? Is it fear? Potential for failure?

But failure isn’t the worst outcome a situation could have. The worst outcome is mediocrity. Even the meager idea of mediocrity makes my skin crawl. Maybe it’s my fear of mediocrity that rests at the heart of the beast clawing it’s way from the inside out. This beast will never rest, never die. Not as long as I am its host. I’ve found that no matter what I do, what successes I have, what new project I am working on (or putting off), that this feeling is always there. At the end of the day when there’s nothing left to do until morning… that’s when the beast awakes. Sitting watching tv in my one-bedroom apartment and packing a bowl is just a little too average to rest easy in my soul. I need more than this. Maybe loneliness factors in as well. I suppose if I had someone to come home to, pass the bowl to, make fun of whatever is on tv with, maybe I wouldn’t have this feeling so much. But, wouldn’t that still be considered escapism? After all, Love is the most crippling drug. It’s not that I want someone there all the time. That sounds awful. I would rather be average than deal with that. It’s just, sometimes… I am too much for myself to handle. My mind is, anyway.

Ambition is both a blessing and a curse.

Here I am. Sitting on my scarred-up bamboo floor. Bamboo is supposed to be one of the strongest woods. Yet my floor is full of nicks, scratches, gashes and scuffs. Signs of living. Signs of abuse.

My couch is in perfect condition. I couldn’t possibly sit on it right now. I am this floor. It’s not that I don’t deserve to sit on the immaculate couch. I just don’t identify with it. I need something as fucked up as I am.

I’m at that crossroads. I didn’t realize it would be such a definite decision. I didn’t realize it would come so soon after I began to ease into writing again. Writing can’t be done on a schedule. Not the kind I do.

Back to location.

I’ve been overcome by this situation. By the emotions that come with it. By the confusion. The pain. I can choose not to feel it… to pull away and try not to think about. Douse it in alcohol and burn it with a joint. God, that sounds so great. But the other option is so much better. So much more painful. I’d have to feel. I’m not much of a fan of that. I’d have to analyze. It’s exhausting, really. But it would be the perfect beginning to start telling this God-awful story. That’s assuming that people even want to hear it.

If it wasn’t for Chuck Palahniuk I’d say no one would ever want to read a book about all this. But people love misery, as long as it’s not their own.

I’ve always loosely known what the book would be about. I put off writing it because the story was still developing and could change direction completely in an instant. Looking back, I’m glad I lost those first few chapters I wrote. They’re shit. They mean nothing now.

I’ve always wondered what the best way to begin this saga would be. It’s hard to decide that kind of thing when you don’t even know what kind of story you’re writing. I thought for a long time that it was a love story. That’s laughable now. I actually just chuckled to myself at the notion. Through the tears. What the fuck was I on? It’s pretty clear that this is no love story. Maybe it started that way. But that’s how all the great tragedies begin.

This point, me sitting here. Broken. On this broken floor. It’s the perfect place to begin.

So I might as well start. I ran out of alcohol anyway.

I have also been juggling something else. That something else is called baggage. We all have some. I began to think about mine not too long ago, as I haven’t given it much thought recently (thank God). As the thoughts pulled a figurative B&E (that’s “breaking an entering” for those of you not up on the lingo) on my mind, I immediately got the urge to do some work. I couldn’t relax unless my brain was busy designing a flyer, writing an article, or putting together a show schedule. I could not possibly sit dormant and allow my issues to burglarize my thoughts. I do not want to think about my ex. I do not want to think about my nonexistent love life. I do not want to think about my brother’s felony and mental disabilities.

Being a workaholic is both a good and a bad thing. Nothing new there. I’ve always been battling my over-active mind. I’ve turned to pills, to drinks, to weed. I’ve turned to books, to movies, to music. Anything to just not think about whatever is haunting me at the time.

These days, my drug of choice is work.

There is ambition. There is passion. There is action. These are all things workaholics have in common. But there is something else. There is what I call “The Ghost.” The Ghost represents all of those things you are running from. It is your rocky relationship. It is your growing debt. It is your fear of forever being alone. It is that overall fear of failure. That worst-nightmare no workaholic can stand to even consider. We hate The Ghost. We wish The Ghost didn’t exist. We are strong people–going after our dreams, increasing our paychecks, making our names known. We can’t be susceptible to emotions, to simple thought. We have work to do.

Right?

Being productive is better than turning to drugs and alcohol. (God, I’m such a good influence!) It’s better than achieving absolutely nothing while still running from The Ghost. Working is a good thing.

But we can’t always run from The Ghost.

We have to confront our demons some time. It’s impossible to stay so busy at all times that we avoid it. If you can, congratulations. You’re fake. Or stupid.  Our generation has perfected escapism. What we need work on? Self-analytical thought.

Sometimes being productive is actually counter-productive.

Take a moment to breathe.