It's Not Enough
Black, shitty mood.
Was intending to write a grand historical epic of how Mr. Zhang came about to be who he is today. It was gonna be entirely boring; a thousand page essay of nothing that ever mattered and stuff nobody gives a shit about - just to entertain myself. But then I decided that it'd take too much time and I'd better narrow it down a bit.
We are our own greatest obsessions.
It seemed that a spectre of self doubt had haunted me since that spell of depression a full decade ago. It's no longer the ghastly apparition that it once was, but every so often it peeks over my shoulder, whispering in my ear as it does so: You're a fool, it reckons. Can't you see, can't you see? You'd never be good enough. Nothing you do, will ever be good enough.
There's always a sense of having done enough but in reality - there's more. I could never get very far past the comfort zone. Always settling for second best, or for the paltry bits of empty praise.
Sometimes I run so far ahead that when I look back I see all these people behind me, and I thought whew, this is good enough. But there's still dozens, hundreds of people ahead. And each time I accept my place I'd never reach the greatness that I crave. I'd never join the ranks of the best.
How badly I want to reach this goal; I could feel it in my bones. And my bones are aching, the joints pulsing with every beat of my filthy heart.
I just need that chance. A spark.
To burn down this demon zoo of naysayers, locked up in cages like monkeys on steroids. A carcophony of banging, screaming, chattering. Burn it all down like leftover meat at a barbecue party full of drunks.
So it is written, and so it shall be done.
Was intending to write a grand historical epic of how Mr. Zhang came about to be who he is today. It was gonna be entirely boring; a thousand page essay of nothing that ever mattered and stuff nobody gives a shit about - just to entertain myself. But then I decided that it'd take too much time and I'd better narrow it down a bit.
We are our own greatest obsessions.
It seemed that a spectre of self doubt had haunted me since that spell of depression a full decade ago. It's no longer the ghastly apparition that it once was, but every so often it peeks over my shoulder, whispering in my ear as it does so: You're a fool, it reckons. Can't you see, can't you see? You'd never be good enough. Nothing you do, will ever be good enough.
There's always a sense of having done enough but in reality - there's more. I could never get very far past the comfort zone. Always settling for second best, or for the paltry bits of empty praise.
Sometimes I run so far ahead that when I look back I see all these people behind me, and I thought whew, this is good enough. But there's still dozens, hundreds of people ahead. And each time I accept my place I'd never reach the greatness that I crave. I'd never join the ranks of the best.
How badly I want to reach this goal; I could feel it in my bones. And my bones are aching, the joints pulsing with every beat of my filthy heart.
I just need that chance. A spark.
To burn down this demon zoo of naysayers, locked up in cages like monkeys on steroids. A carcophony of banging, screaming, chattering. Burn it all down like leftover meat at a barbecue party full of drunks.
So it is written, and so it shall be done.