Locked

 

My eyes are locked with the traffic that whizzes by, endlessly, every single day. How many people do my eyes fall upon each and every day? How many cars pass by me while I sit here in an air-conditioned store? What happens in these people's lives? Where are they headed? It is early morning, so I suppose most are either traveling to work to perform some sort of early morning shopping. Is that the only reason why people travel? Work or errands? I'm sure at least a handful are traveling for entertainment or enjoyment. Maybe they are beginning a road trip or heading to a social gathering.

If I were to use my own personal experience as a guide, then they are only driving to work or errands. It is rare that any reason other than obligation would compel me to leave my quiet apartment. Perhaps that speaks to my character more than it does the countless thousands of strangers I see every day. I am much more of an isolated cocoon than a social butterfly. My home has everything I require, excluding a never-ending source of food and money. Unfortunately, my kind words are not powerful enough to convince my landlord to waive my rent.

That's the main reason why I'm stuck here, watching the traffic fly by without any signs of slowing. Surely not all of them can be traveling to work. It's already a quarter pass ten. Unless they work unholy retail hours then they would have already been at work. I wonder how many are the lucky few. How many have already achieved that dream job? The one that they are fully passionate about and frees them from the wasteful hours spent watching traffic drive by. How many are doctors? How many are lawyers? Those were always the big two growing up. Doctors and lawyers; even politicians. The way my parents talked; you would believe that those were the three most worthwhile jobs to have. But they never did push me in any particular direction. Perhaps they were always just gentle suggestions. Instead, they opted for allowing me to find my own path, which I am both thankful for and slightly curse them for. I would hate to have been pigeonholed into a career that did not fulfill me. But at the same time... I am stuck in this air-conditioned store watching traffic whiz by. Maybe some gentle encouragement for what fuels my burning desire would've been what I needed. But we never really did have that conversation, did we? I can't place any blame on them. How could they help when I didn't ask?

A change in motion manages to break the trance the cars have on me. I look to my left and don't see anything out of the usual. I then see a water droplet fall from the ceiling. With a sigh, I stand and pick up a black trash can and place it under the leak. I disapprovingly look up at the ceiling. I stare at the bottom of the A/C unit. I guess our maintenance team never did manage to fix this. And weren't they supposed to replace our tiles at some point? I suppose it would be pointless if the damn thing is still spewing out droplets of water. I shuffle my feet back to the desk I was sitting at and continue the staring contest the traffic had initiated. I should probably write an email about the leak again; make sure people are on top of it. But - I am here for another nine hours. There is definitely no rush, and I am far too busy daydreaming about success. Sometimes it feels like that's all I ever do. Dreams and hopes and aspirations... pointless feel-good emotions to make me believe that one day I won't have to sit here and watch these damn cars drive by. If only I wasn't stuck here, then I could work on what makes me feel alive. If only I had free time I could write or record videos or stream. But I never am able to find the time or the opportunity to actually work on what compels me.

A soft door chime once again rips away my important task of watching the sparsely colored mechanical cages hurl themselves down the road. I twist my head over to the direction of the front door and see one of our delivery guys. I breathe a sigh of relief, at least it's not a customer looking to purchase a new phone or with a mind numbingly easy tech question. We exchange pleasantries and he hands off the package before scurrying out of the store once more. I stare at the brown box he handed me and wonder what device lies inside. Another iPhone, I presume. Perhaps it's a Samsung phone. I set the box down next to my desk and elect to ignore it for now. After all, I still have another eight hours to go before I am free of these confides and the traffic isn't going to watch itself.

What makes me so passionate about content creation? I suppose it's partly because of the connections that it allows me to have. Every time I stream, I get to talk with numerous others that share my passions. We laugh, we joke, and talk about our mental health and whatever ails us. Although, I guess it isn't really accurate to say numerous. I usually only get two, maybe three viewers at any given time and they're all my close friends. Can I really call that an audience? And the videos that I recorded and uploaded to YouTube don't exactly garner any viewership either. And yet I still feel an overwhelming sense of accomplishment whenever I hit start streaming or upload. I'm an unsuccessful content creator that feels fulfilled just by the act of creating? I guess a better definition of passion can't be found. But that's not where my heart fully lies, is it? At the very least, content creation was never my first love.

A blaring horn detaches me from introspective and I look both north and south to see if I can find whatever dumb thing some clueless driver did. I sigh again. If I was full time with my content creation, then I wouldn't have to surround myself with those clueless drivers. I could say goodbye to the idiots who tailgate me when I drive the speed limit and to the never-ending wave of construction projects. At least, I could say goodbye to encountering it every single day. Would I be comfortable with providing for myself only because strangers deemed it so? Subscriptions and donations and viewership can all be gone in the blink of an eye if those watching decide my content doesn't deserve their patronage. That's a dangerous way to live, solely on the kindness of strangers. Though, I suppose when you think about it, the same could be said for any product that someone has decided to purchase. Would big brand stores still be in business if it weren't for strangers deeming their business was worth spending money on? I suppose it's not all that different. Even now, as I sit inside a big brand cellphone store, all of it could be washed away in the blink of an eye if the company fell out of public favor or strangers deemed the product offered is not worth the patronage.

Another door chime forces me to focus on the 9 to 5, well I suppose 9:30 to 8 is more accurate, that I'm being paid pennies for. An older woman with light blonde hair that is starting to grey is standing in my doorway. I stand and give a polite smile, shouting out a greeting as I step forward to a table in the middle of the store. She calls back in a sweet and quiet voice that her phone has stopped working. She is currently unable to hear any of her text chimes or ringtones when someone calls. I mentally roll my eyes and allow my inner voice to sigh. In a polite and cherry tone, I invite her to come over to the table for me to take a look at it. I became a master at hiding my true thoughts and my inner voice at a young age. I suppose ever since middle school, when bullies were full of hormones and ready to pounce on anyone different. What better way to keep someone from making fun of the way you talk or what you think than by not sharing your voice? The elderly lady finally shuffles her way to my table and hands me her iPhone. Instinctively, I flip the phone to its side and check to see if the "do not disturb" switch is flipped on. And, like clockwork, it sure is. I smile and present the switch to her, explaining what it does and how it works. I flip it on and then grab one of my store phones to show her that the problem is solved. I stare at the phone and feel my training begging to be kicked on. It's an older phone. I should ask her if she wants to upgrade it. I should explain that it's old enough to the point where it'll no longer work on the network in a coming year. The lady smiles and thanks me for my work and then turns to leave. I don't have the strength to stop her. I know I should. I know my job is commission based and that by selling her a new phone I get to line my own pockets... but I just don't care. There is no passion left in me. The door chimes once again and I am left alone in my cold, conditioned air building.

What happened? When I started this job, about two years ago, I was genuinely excited for it. I liked who I worked for. I would get excited whenever I would process a big sale. I would jump for joy when I made over a thousand dollars in profit for the store. Now I cringe every time I hear that stupid door chime. If I sold that lady 3 phones, insurance and a credit card it wouldn't be enough to cut through the ice that surrounds the burning fuel of my heart's desire. I return to my seat at my desk and continue to watch these vehicular eyesores speed down the pavement. Does content creation melt that ice? Do I jump for joy when I have a successful stream? Do I get giddy when I upload a video? Not particularly, I suppose. Which is to not downplay the experiences those mediums grant me. I love it. It feels wrong when I don't produce online content. And I'll forever be indebted to it for the friends it was able to give me. Friends that, for what feels like the first time in my life, actually like me for me. Friends that want to hang out with me, that want to hear my thoughts about things and that want my company. I had a few of those during grade school but our friendships never lasted. I'm not sure why. I had two best friends near the end of my education, but they didn't move forward into adulthood with me. I'm partially to blame, I know. I didn't try as hard as I could to keep in contact with them. And now I have friends that have a different vibe; one that matches my own much better.

So of course, there is a passion there still. But it feels like a half-measure, in a way. It makes me feel great and I've worked into the late night on projects before. I wouldn't trade it for the world, and I can't imagine stopping for good. But what is it then? What is this constant nagging that I feel buried deep inside my being? What is keeping that burning passion locked away? I ask as though I don't already know the answer. I voluntarily look away from the stupid cars and down at my phone. For the past few hours, I've had YouTube videos on as background noise. I haven't really been paying attention to any of the videos. I swipe on the screen and search for inspirational and motivational videos. I watch a video with David Goggins as the speaker. I enjoyed his book on mastering one's mind. But the words he's saying are failing to reach me. I hear everything he's saying. That I'm my own blockade and that I can always put out more than what I think I can. I understand that. I agree with that. But for whatever reason it does nothing to fill me with that unrelenting desire to put words onto a paper.

I switch gears. Maybe a different person would give me the spark that I'm so thirsty for. I look for a speech by Arnold Schwarzenegger. A speech about not being afraid to fail; to welcome in the failure. He had seven rules for success; seven rules to live life by. It always helped in the past to get me pumped up. I turn on a version of this speech, one where he is talking to some graduating class. It's a nice speech. It causes an itch to form in my gut, but nothing more than what David Goggins said. Perhaps because they are cut from the same cloth. Both are men are in tremendous physical condition. Both love exercise and improving their physical body and their mental projection of what is around them. That's fine. Those speeches are powerful and awe inspiring. But they don't spark within me. They don't awaken what was once inside me a few years ago. These speeches make me want work out and get my rotund form into shape. They don't awaken that gnawing, clawing beast that was once within me.

I change videos once more. What about this random compilation video that talks about writing? It certainly sounds nice but it's not shaking off this crushing depression I am feeling. Every time I clock into my day job and sit down, waiting and watching those stupid, freaking cars drive by, my soul feels like it is being pummeled away. Every day that I am not scribing down words into a document or officially publishing my novel I grow more and more hateful of my monotonous routine.

But then I hear a voice. It sounds like it belongs to an elderly gentleman. He starts telling me about reasons why not to write. That if my motivations are any of the following that I should pack it up and move onto a different career. That, and I quote "unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it's truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was."

After hearing the end of that poem, so you want to be a writer? by Charles Bukowski, I stare at the floor in front of me for a few moments. Never have my own feelings concerning my craft been spoken to me so elegantly before. I have felt those feelings before. I have felt that sun inside my gut burning away my flesh. Even today, as I stared into traffic wondering how fast a car has to be moving to instantly kill me. Death appeared to be a better alternative to not doing it. I have been longing for those writing sessions where I couldn't sleep until 3 in the morning because I needed to get the words down; and then continued writing until 6 because I couldn't stop. The days where I would wake up at 8 in the morning and write until noon, eat lunch, and then continue writing until 3 or 4. I felt everything this man had stated - everything that he deemed was a worthy motivation for writing. Why am I wasting so much time just sitting here and feeling sorry for myself? I have down time at work and a computer that stares at me every day. I have the tools and I have the fire. And I no longer have excuses. So, I got out of my own way.

And I wrote.