The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

Sometimes no matter how hard you try and fight it, you just can’t seem to overcome that voice inside your head that wants you to tear down everything you’ve worked so hard to create and set it all ablaze. Relapses, anger and anxiety are common place for someone who has suffered the limitless lows of depression, and lately I’ve felt that all too familiar feeling of the devil crawling up my back to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Usually when you slip into a mindset like this you can grab the devil by the throat and throw him to the floor, but lately those little whispers have been resonating in a manner that they haven’t done for quite some time. Lately I’ve actually been considering setting everything ablaze for no other reason than to watch myself burn.

I’m not a hundred per cent sure how I got here again. When I wrote my last post I was in a good place; my writing was evolving and I felt like I was actually achieving something with everything that I was doing. But now I feel like the only thing that can quash my current mindset would be the familiar smell of smoke as I destroy everything that I have become as a writer. Maybe it’s just the perpetually slow industry I am trying to enter that’s making me feel like this, or maybe it’s just creative frustration at starting over once more. But what if it’s not? What if it’s me? I could just be overtired; the fact that I’m not sleeping again means that this could be a real possibility. Or maybe I’m histrionic, or a masochist; perhaps I am here again because I actually love to see myself fail. Whatever the reason, I’m stuck in a fucking rut and am struggling to clear my head of the negative bullshit that’s overwhelming my senses.

I’ve come a long way in the past twelve months, when I originally started this blog I was in a terrible state. I’d shed kilos, lost hours of sleep and decided that I pretty much hated the world and every single person in it. Now I can usually find solace and beauty in my surroundings, and can even more often than not see the good in people. But now it’s almost as though I have created this bubble of positivity around myself that prevents me from ever fully articulating my angst and frustrations. There are times in my life where I just want to scream from the rooftops, or call someone a cunt, but I can’t bring myself to do it for fear of shattering my own perception that I am no longer a negative person. – Take this post for example. I’m pissed off, I’m frustrated as hell, and I just want to burn every fucking thing I’ve ever written; yet rather than actually do that I resort to trying to create a logical argument and reason with myself as to why I am angry.

So why not just let go Chris? Why not open the flood gates and give in to the devil’s charm? Why not be that abrasive voice that tells someone just how fucking worthless they really are?… The answer isn’t always simple, but the truth is that it’s often just not worth it. Sometimes it’s better to let the lowest common denominator believe that they are something more and that you actually give a fuck about them than shatter their minds by telling them just what the devil is whispering in your ear.
I think the troubling thing in all of this is that as a student and an emerging writer, I am often considered to be the lowest common denominator by all the self-indulgent fuckwits within the writing and publishing industries. I received an email recently were a local poetry society were offering one lucky student the opportunity to work with them as an intern. It’s something that any young writer would jump at; the opportunity to work alongside those who have managed to break into the industry and build some wonderful contacts is tantalizing to any student sitting at the bottom of the industry’s proverbial slush pile. The only thing was the internship on offer was nothing more than cheap exploitation on behalf of some self-important cock that couldn’t be fucked giving anyone a real opportunity.

The internship was to be conducted by the successful candidate in their own time, at their own house, meaning they would never actually mingle with anyone other than their keyboard over the course of four months. The intern would be required to manage the poetry society’s Facebook/twitter accounts, write fortnightly newsletters, update blogs, and so on. After all their hard work over the four months this very (un)lucky intern would receive a beautiful letter of reference from the societies director that would see them considered favourably for any future internships… I mean honestly, what kind of fucked up logic is that? Is the industry that I so desperately want to enter so shallow that organizations will blatantly capitalize on someone’s desire to succeed and treat them like a leper? Because if it is then I will happily set fire to everything I have created and let it all burn to hell.

I’m an idealist and a realist all rolled into one. When I write I’m not trying to change the world; I’m just trying to have some fun and overcome my own demons. But I’m also not out to cut someone off at the knees and manipulate their dreams for my own personal gain. That’s not to say that the ability to do so isn’t in me. Once upon a time I would have been more than eager to screw someone over in the pursuit of glory, but thankfully I’ve grown a little since then. But sadly my chosen field seems to run riot with arrogant pricks that would are still willing to do so. My rut that I’m stuck in isn’t due entirely too pretentious dickheads like this, I’ve got more issues than a fucking psychiatric patient, but it can sometimes be hard to remain upbeat when you’ve constantly got those who have succeeded pissing down on you as though you are one of the great unwashed. Nothing stings more than the arrogant smirks and remarks of those deluded men and women who have forgotten where they came from and chose to look down their nose at the rest of us still trying desperately to make it.

Right now I’m angry, I’m irritable and I’m beyond fucking tired. My days follow the same basic design. I wake early to write, I work, and I come home and study while trying to keep my eyelids open. By the time the weekend rolls around I’m usually exhausted and struggle just to roll out of bed. Yet I do all of this in the hopes that I can break into the publishing industry and achieve something incredible. But if breaking into this industry means parading myself around like a king and treating those below me like a piece of shit than I’m not interested. I’d rather burn everything I have created to hell and be king of my own cinderblock than be just another pretentious cunt who can’t write to save himself yet looks down on others like they are the scum of the earth.

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