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Pink Floyd is Pretty Damned Visionary

The human mind is such a complex prison, you know. It’s a cage that holds us in, ties us in bonds that we can’t even see to struggle out of. No matter how much we struggle and twist, no matter how far we travel and fly, inside our own heads, we still just bound to those same eternal delusional failures that we have created for ourselves. No matter how good things ever really get, I am constantly telling myself that I am still struggling, still suffering, and so I do.

I suffer for no reason than to make myself right.

God damn that’s a stupid place to be at. Hiding behind your own stupid, false pain when you know that there is so much more going on out there. I spent this weekend doing something I hadn’t done in a long time.

I dived into a great, thick blanket of self pity. No, that’s not accurate. Pity implies that I was kind to myself. No, I dived into a shell of self loathing. I laid in bed. I watched a bit of television between my many frequent naps. I simply hid from anything even remotely resembling feeling.

I think my friends have developed a psychic bond with me or something, because no sooner had I passed that point of caring then people came knocking on the door. They dragged me out from my home and for a few hours, I was engaging, insightful, and passionate. Then, it ended, the party was over, and I returned to that state of static isolation that is so wonderfully, comfortably numb.

The soundtrack to my young life is filled with some of the greatest rock songs of the 60s and 70s. That’s a byproduct of being raised by my geek parents. You know, geeks tend to collect some of the most amazing things from their lives, and music is no different than that, and so, I was raised on a healthy diet of classic rock: The musical voice of the most tortured and painful era of human culture before the one we live in now.

How ironic it is that I never thought I would relate to that music the way I do?

How stupid I was to have the hubris to think that life isn’t just a cycle of human experience from generation to generation?

How many arguments have I had with my father that I swore my generation was different from his?

I know, that’s the hubris of youth, isn’t it?

Here’s something I never thought I’d say, though: We are all the same. No matter how much you want to pretend that you stand out in the world, no matter how special or gifted you are, there are certain universal truths that define human existence.

Inside, we’re all a little bit weak, a little bit afraid, and a whole lot selfish.

We have to be, otherwise, we’d never know how to be strong, brave and generous.

So, maybe I’m not making a lot of sense today.

I should probably stop while I’m ahead, but I can’t. Now that I’ve cycled back into wakefulness, I just can’t stop myself from picking at the fresh scars.

They say that the true path to success and happiness is to learn from your failures and to move on from them, never letting them hold you back. I guess in that way, I probably won’t ever be successful or happy. I don’t leave things lying behind me in the dust. I just can’t bring myself to let go of every stumble.

I tell myself that’s my strength, too, you know. I say that because I can go back, and remember word for word every conversation and failure, relive each of those moments a thousand times over, extrapolate a million scenarios from them, that I can use that tool as a writer. I tell myself that I can draw from my life as a heavy and powerful experience and share it.

But I can’t.

It hurts to do it. It’s paralyzing and oppressive.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been fluctuating between a near manic state and a near depressed state. It’s not the valleys and peaks of a true Emo Cycle, and the plateaus and troughs are short and spastic, but in some ways its much more crippling. I can feel chilled to the bone one moment and fevered the next. There is no stability of it, and I think it’s because I’ve been trying so hard to focus on those past conversations, those past moments of failure.

It burns at the soul and clouds the mind.

I have to burn it in effigy.

At least metaphorically.

I just can’t take much more of myself.

Published by M.A. Brotherton

M.A. Brotherton is a writer, blogger, artist, and fat-kid from the suburbs of Kansas City, Missouri. He’s tasted a little bit of everything the Midwest has to offer, ranging from meth-tweaking rednecks in massive underground cave complexes to those legendary amber waves of grain. When he’s not writing, he spends most of his time screwing around on the internet.

2 thoughts on “Pink Floyd is Pretty Damned Visionary”

  1. Canaan Roling says:

    I was going to say something that I thought was wise and insightful; and then I realized it was just me being big sisterly know it all bitchy about my illness. So, instead, since you mentioned it, I think your friends may have to drag you out into the open more often. Muwa ha Ha hA HA!

    1. M.A. Brotherton says:

      We all have ways of dealing with pain and anger. Mine are insane rants on the interwebs. You know… for posterity. 

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