"In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day."

Have you ever felt like all the contradictions inside you will simply cancel out your existence one day? Or maybe they'll build up to a crescendo and silently implode into a black hole, leaving nothing behind. I just read The Curious Case of Benjamin Button by F Scott Fitzgerald, and I couldn't stop turning his beautiful words over and over in my mind, the helplessness, the despair the unfortunate person feels as he recedes into middle-agedness, teenage, childhood, and then, the nothingness.
The nothingness, I think, is something we all fear. I know I do. Thankfully, we don't face the problem Benjamin Button had, we will age the normal way, living out Shakespeare's Seven Ages till the last day. In any case, we also have a limited time.
I must say I'm disappointed with the experience of being 23. Twenty-three was supposed to be THE age, Jordan's number, the year when I could do everything and kick ass at it, own the universe, and yet, it's been 11 months and a bit more of just trying to keep my head above water. As 24 approaches, my expectations are lower than Nottingham Forest's ambitions of returning to the top-flight, but I do see some flickering lights of hope, I do.
Things at home have finally come to a head (insert yelling, discomfort, and a lot more of nightmarish things I don't wish to talk about), and the only silver lining is that we're moving out. I will finally have a room to call my own, no sense of being a terrible problem, and walls to put up all my Liverpool posters on. A bookshelf in which all my books can be in the same place. I feel happy just looking at my books, you know?
Maybe I'm jinxing all this horribly by writing it out, but I do want to put it down in words, or hope just doesn't seem real anymore. It has to be out there, visible, or I feel like it's just some ramblings in my head. And the ramblings in my head deserve much more space than these few lines.
As for work, well. I used to think it's good to quit while you're ahead, except that now I'm so far behind I can see just endless stretches of parched desert land, with signboards propped up every few kms saying I should simply give up. It's time to move on, and it's not the same as giving up. Just a recognition of my strengths, weaknesses, and sticking a cheeky tongue out at the sense of inadequacies I have been made to believe I possess. I have a little over seven months to find a new job. Luck, ideas would be appreciated. All I know is I want to write. About sports. And if I can't have that, then just write. Or maybe work with books.
My alcoholic capacity is increasing. Which is not a good thing, financially. It means I need more and more alcohol to reach the fun, head-spinning, babbling whoozinesspoint, and hence more money vanishes quickly. But going to work drunk is great. And you know what's greater? When you put your head down and close your eyes after a binge... your whole world spins round and round, upside down, it feels like a rollercoaster. Awesome.
Sometimes, it amazes me, how I can drink and be merry, laugh like a maniac, make the most inane jokes at this current crap point of my life, what with everything at home and work getting worse simultaneously. I definitely do have moments where I could resort to mass murder, and yet there are those times when my friends have to look around embarrassedly after one of my laughing fits in public. I feel like two people, no, make that a million. And they're all great.
Oh, the drum classes are awesome. I tried to keep them a secret but the parents found out and there was a bit of a deal. It blew over when they realised there was simply no way to stop the 'madness', as they said. I must finalise the drum set deal soon. And make enquiries about sound-proofing my new room.
A new football season begins in a few days. Nervousness, worry, hope begin to set in. I foresee a lot of football fights this season. Beware all, especially if you support the red scum from Manchester.