Workin’ 9 to 5, what a way to make a living…

It’s time to get pissed off. Really fucking aggro.

Disillusion. Discontent. Elitism.

Must end this habitual dragging of my arse to the 9-5 nightmare that breeds my discontent. Anxious to live, breathe and inhabit what really makes me – the rock ‘n’ roll, the rambling, the extremes of lifestyle. The euphoria such extremes can bring shines like big bright stars. Pissed they are relegated to being fleeting moments controlled by forces with their own agenda that I have willingly fallen into. Now though it’s not my way. On Monday I wish it was Friday so I can see the night out by my own whims. I want Monday to cease having those limitations, and by Friday I sleep while the other drones step into fleeting life for two days. I want to step into life when the wind takes me there and not by some soul sucking schedule. Monday now is being stuck in the tornado sober and miserable. If I’m going be taken by it’s force, I want to be mirroring it’s velocity, taking myself to the extremes of my own existence and not giving a fuck about someone else’s idea of how I should meander through life. We have fuel, but nowhere to go. On my own time, I always have somewhere to go.

This is all just whinging shit though when I realise my alarm is set for a rise I would happily be delivered to without slumber. For now, for a few moments each evening when I put a record on I momentarily forget the binds I hold my hands out for time and time again and for a few moments I am nothing but the culmination of satisfied need. Another rum. A Velvet Underground track. Some more relaxants. Cigarette. Change the song. Remember to read about that great fucking writer you’ve heard about. No saying no. No saying ‘I shouldn’t’. Whether quiet boozing or still singing at sunrise.

I’ve become accustomed to the ways I so vehemently despise. Have burdened myself with needing to pay the bills on time. Needing all these ‘things’ so that I justify squeezing away my life five days a week. Racked up debts that need paying. An inherent stain on my life that seeks to remind me of the role I can play if I so choose. In some ways it’s easy. Depressing, and mind numbingly repugnant, but in some sense of the word, easy. There is no thought or heart required for it. You just need to be able to set an alarm, force yourself out of bed (ok, that’s not so easy), and perform meaningless tasks that over time require no stretch of the capacity of your brain. In that sense it’s easy.

On the other hand, it’s all too hard and it becomes increasingly difficult to feign any sort of interest. It becomes too hard to believe any of it contributes to any sort of worth. So, if I am exposing myself to hours of this degradation, am I becoming worthless? As I allow my time to be raped by institutions I have less and less care for, am I devaluing my very worth? Why have I not broken the cycle? I am not the first, and certainly won’t be the last person to be stricken by these qualms. I don’t even have the answers. I have no grand plan to eradicate the bullshit. There must be a grand plan I can muster. I must find my own answers. That is my responsibility but what the fuck am I doing about it? Seems like nothing but I believe in the winds of change and it’s time they knock me off my feet and when I get back up I’m stepping up to somewhere I belong, far, far away from all this bullshit I despise.