Instead of going straight to bed, I instead have this compulsion to write. These are the times in which writing can be a little precarious, because the tone is often on the somber side, and I’ll be the first to admit that there’s a lean towards slightly disappointing on my thought process right about now.
I know some pretty decent folks in my little life down here in Atlanta. We do things together, gather for trivia on a mostly weekly basis, have occasional parties, and I’m more than willing to lend helping hands to whomever of these may need one. I like most of them very well, and I know that the feeling is mutual. However, I’m often under reminder to myself, that I don’t really have a lot in common with my frequent company down here, and it often leads to droughts of silence on my end, when I have pretty much nothing to contribute to a group setting.
Upon departure from my friends, I often sit in the silence of my car, and thoughts like these often times pervade my head. It’s not that I’m necessarily a quiet person in general, but if I have nothing to contribute to a conversation, I’d prefer to stay away; listen and try and pick up on things, sure, but risk sounding ignorant, disingenuous, or bored, I’d rather not do. I don’t have the same interests or hobbies as anyone down here really, I’m not interested in gossip, and what I do for a living isn’t interesting to anyone, nor is it remotely recognizable beyond an “oh hey, I have seen that before” kind of mannerism. I can’t always say I’m always interested in what other people do for a living, nor educated in certain talents or comprehensions to where I could hold my own in a casual conversation. Furthermore, when things tend to get louder in a bustling environment, I simply grow agitated and exasperated with the difficulty it is to simply hold common communication sometimes. Then silence ensues.
I really do enjoy the company of others, but I’m kind of pissed at myself for being able to genuinely take part of it sometimes. I look back at a lot of the gatherings where sure, I do have fond memories of, but I’m coming to the disheartening conclusion that a lot of those times, I was drunk, and I apparently didn’t give a fuck about holding my tongue, or risking looking dumber than I already was while inebriated. At that point, Drunk Danny is now a good story to tell in the future.
But then I ask myself, if I were capable of handling myself in a more interactive manner, would anyone care of what I’d have to say? When the numbers increase, my voice becomes drowned out, and it feels like even more of a futile effort to be heard sometimes. I guess what all of these words are amounting to is that there are times in which I just don’t believe that my friends down here, simply don’t think I’m a very interesting person. I don’t have many of the same interests, my love of sports is often met with ridicule and mockery, and I often get the impression that my intelligence in select topics isn’t regarded very highly. I’m an artist by trade, but it’s like when it comes to my opinion on the artistic, you’d be better off asking an invalid.
Personally, I don’t think I’m a particularly interesting person sometimes, aside from the slightly abnormal thought processes, kind of morbid sense of humor, and tendencies to over-think things from time to time. But I grow to dislike the feeling of irrelevance sometimes. I’m the most important person in the world when anyone needs my specific services or expertise, but most times else, I’m the guy in the background who seems to only really be fascinating when drunk.
This is why writing is therapeutic to me. To those who choose to read my words, my voice can’t be muted. It may sound like your own voice in your own head, but they’re my words, and my thoughts. The funny thing is that I’m astute to the fact that not a very good number of people read my ramblings. My site is awesome after an event or a gathering where I had my camera, because everyone likes to see pictures of themselves, or people doing stupid shit. But does anyone really stick around to indulge in my passion of writing? Maybe a few. Maybe they’re the ones who’ve always been interested. Maybe not.
In the long run, and even the short run, it doesn’t really matter. But here’s a little bit of truth in my writing – there are occasionally times like this in which I will jot and share my thoughts down, that I’d otherwise not share with people in private conversation. Not Jen, not my family, not my closest friends. It’s presumed that I’ll simply just talk about the shit I’d brog about, so there’s no point in dropping by. There’s a level of candor that I’m just not comfortable discussing with others, so I put the writing on the wall, and leave it to anonymous chance. Some will give a shit, some won’t. Some simply won’t even know. It doesn’t really matter. Tomorrow’s a new day, and feelings subside in time.
