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Electribe 101 Talking With Myself

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I talk to myself daily. Come to think of it, I’m doing it as we speak. It’s commonly regarded as the first sign of madness but, in truth, it’s the most sane act that I partake in daily. I’m never shocked or appalled by my rejoinders; rarely say the wrong thing or cause upset. Me, myself & I have become firm friends, particularly over the past year or so, and the one thing which has become clear in that time is that, no matter how conflicted the results of any lengthy discussions, we always end up speaking with the same tongue. The pressure is off with nobody around; if I say the wrong thing, a particular ailment of mine, then I already know that I didn’t mean to cause offense and have forgiven the indiscretion the very moment it’s been committed. However, it hasn’t all been speedos and sun loungers.

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There was a time, in the none too distant past, when things weren’t quite so hunky dory. I’d even go as far as saying that I got on my nerves. Suddenly, solitude became a prison sentence, and I began to doubt my own validity. While I’m aware that we all do it from time to time, the regularity of my self-loathing was alarming to say the least and very nearly left me muted. When a married couple’s bickering escalates into a full-blown heated debate, culminating in name calling and blown fuses, there’s a cooling down period of sorts and, after the dust has settled, said couple begin to see the appeal of make-up sex. It may be nasty, bitter intercourse and engaged in out of the need for selfish gain rather than affection, but it does break the silence. Not the case minus the fuck buddy. I’m stuck with me; no fire exits to bolt through or cooling off periods to get my head back in the game.

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My own worst enemy? In some ways yes. You see, I know my weaknesses and how to expose them. Personal well-being is as good a place to start when attempting to demolish your own house of cards. Hit yourself where it hurts; stop taking care of yourself and invite sickness into the fray. My body has been through the ringer and continues to groan its discord as another dose of caffeine, taurine and nicotine bloats my ventricles. We can be rather persuasive creatures; I convinced myself that there was no point to my continuation regardless of the fact that I have a beautiful and, moreover, kind-hearted five year-old son to consider. Blurred lines and sketchy edges made up my vista, and my light source commenced to flicker with uncertainty. Word to the wise folks; dread does indeed creep. It crawls along on its scaled belly, tendrils flailing, and menace unfaltering as it prepares to nuzzle. Sidestepping it appeared fruitless as it anticipated my every move. The only thing left to do was to face it head-on.

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I’d always considered myself to be a lover as opposed to fighter. While the testosterone was circulating the locker room and he most bullied was receiving multiple lashes via a sopping platted towel to my left; my mind was on altogether different pursuits. Those chumps may have perfected the art of putting heads to bed but I was more fascinated with the notion of taking a real life girl there. The joke was on me as these ruffians would follow-up any public beatings by sleeping with the hottest girls in school while I sat in my bedroom with my dick in my palm. I blamed said girls’ poor judgement but, over time, forgave them as they started to come around to my way of thinking. I didn’t so much as lose my virginity as stumble out of it; self-doubt crept in as I forgot to remove my clown shoes for the opening act, and consequently it became snagged around my ankles as I waddled towards the G-spot like a clusterfuck.

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Anyhoots, I have digressed enough, back to those pesky demons. Watching Rocky IV in a heaving multiplex convinced me of two things. Firstly, if I can change…and yous can change…maybe we can all change. I’m paraphrasing of course but this is Balboa not Nietzsche after all. Love conquered hate; good triumphed over evil; Drago was defeated in the 11th hour and all because of the love of Adrienne and a rousing montage. Even Paulie shed a tear and I did also. You know why? Because I care; I too have had my Rocky IV moment in life and came through it. Apollo Creed should never have perished but he was admittedly cocky. I learned the importance of humility that day and have carried it forth throughout all of my endeavors since. Like our Italian Stallion, I lacked a little belief but taking a flurry of blows to one’s cranium can do wonders for your front guard. Instead of cowering behind my gloves, I lashed out, and those demons didn’t like it. While I remain realistic about the likeliness of them calling for a rematch, next time I won’t be on the ropes.

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It took forty years for me to become truly comfortable in my skin. My epiphany was gradual as opposed to a sudden burst of sunlight through the clouds or anything melodramatic like that. There can be only so many times that the penny drops before you sew up your pocket lining. Life schooled me and, despite constant truancy, I graduated with honors. However, any illusion I have learned all that is required, simply isn’t there. There’s such a wealth of information out there at any given moment and picking berries in the spring is second only to sucking on titties like your name is P. Diddy. Every fresh opportunity for mental nourishment that trundles my way is snatched up appreciatively, absorbed accordingly, and filed in archives for later reference. Much of that data may well appear superfluous at the offset but it may just save your life one day.

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I always look at fitting in a decent quota of laughter throughout any calendar day. I’m fortunate enough to know of my funny bone and tickle it habitually; smiling apparently does wonders for one’s face muscles so I stretch mine wide and far each time the feather comes out. That’s the handy thing about scribing with a quill and enjoying being naked. I have perfected the art of amusing myself through my own words and one thing I have never doubted is my sense of humor. Spend sufficient time in my company and I shall reveal my bone to you, the funny one I mean, get your minds out of the gutter Grueheads. Alright you’ve got me, that may make an appearance also but only if I’m not sat next to an air-conditioning unit. Where would we be without comedy? Stationed at an outpost in mid-winter Moscow without so much as a Rubix cube to stimulate our receptors or Wii Fit balance board to stave off frostbite. I’ve watched Deadly Pursuit on more than one occasion and that shit ain’t funny.

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I try not to talk to myself when in shared company as this can be considered the first sign of madness and I’m not enthused about the prospect of the men in white lab coats coming to take me away. That’s the beauty of inner monologue and the reason why it plays such a massive part in my work. It’s all introspective; stating the obvious or stating the oblivious. It all comes from the very same place and I know where that is now. Every piece of writing completed is one big conversation with myself. Not a sentence goes by without me posing myself a question and I learn something new about myself each time I receive an answer. Getting to know somebody is an often demanding social skill that depends on a number of invariables. Getting to know yourself is no different; often a mind field and not always inclined to throw back positives. Rocky Balboa had to endure those haymakers to spark the eye of his tiger. It seems scant reward that his reward for possessing such a burning heart was missionary with Adrienne. But I like to think Paulie would have had a well-lubricated thumb knuckle in the mix. Above all else, I’m just thankful for the imagination. Now if you will excuse me, I have meaning to have a word with myself all day.

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Click here to read Keeper vs. Bieber

 

Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2015

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