A Letter To The Inner Critic

I’m certain this is all very schizophrenic of me but it’s the only way to properly describe me.  I know that you know this since you are one of many.  You are the critic, which isn’t a bad word or a bad thing to be but you are one of those that needs everything to be revolutionary.  The things you whisper are lies and you force the writer, another passenger along for the ride that is my life, into the quiet corner.  You keep talking, he lowers his head so you can place that dunce cap upon him.  Is it because you are just a flat-out fucking douche or is there some conflict within me that I am unaware of?

The sun hides behind a cloud and now I think you, mister critic, are a manifestation of deep seeded doubt within my inner core.  I am overcome with paranoia, fearing what lies around the bend and who lies in wait behind the bushes?  All the terrible things that befalls my fellow man, it’s surprising I ever feel safe.  Lighting another cigarette, knowing this simple act will one day take my life.  I tell myself I enjoy this but do I really?  Is it just a way to hide the fact that I am hopelessly addicted?  A slave to chemicals.  I know this is not the way God intended his children to be.  Though you don’t really know and can’t know.  The smoke is impure and robbed me of a shred of innocence.  Man created and manipulated this into existence.  All of man’s creations are impure.  Which includes the act of arranging words in patterns of communication.

I am a man, at least in some sense of the word and I write.  I am impure therefore what I write, create, is impure and impure implies a sense of flawed being.  So in fact you, my annoyance, are correct in some way but through being flawed beings humanity accepts and embraces that which is flawed.  No one can honestly say they are searching for perfection.  I don’t believe anyone would know what is perfect if it struck it’s palm to our flawed faces.  It’s all about degrees.

We measure days by degrees of favorable, though most have different yard sticks of pleasure.  On a daily basis we die in degrees.  Some inch closer than others but we are all heading to that grim finish line.  The truth is scary and horrible but no one can hide from the truth forever.  You annoy and disrupt me in degrees of douchebagery.  Yes I have thought of killing you and destroying your very presence.  Though, I realized to kill you would be to kill a part of myself.  I learned long ago I am stronger than taking the weak man’s way out.  I do know that unfortunately some people just succumb.  Some require a helping hand in things that others do not.  That’s what makes this whole thing interesting.  It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s merely that everyone is different.  By no means is thinking of suicide a flaw or a disease.  The world sucks and our heads are designed to be like cluttered closets.  Some days just down right suck, you know that cause you, mister critic suck.  Some people suck but that doesn’t make them evil or bad people.

Through my bizarre travels among my fellow men and women.  Let’s not be sexist here.  The lovely ladies of the world deserve ample amounts of attention too.  You may not all think so but just let this soak in: All are lovely in one way or another.  I don’t care who you are, what you do, or what you have done.  Wait a second here, I am running off onto another path.  I have walked and stumbled and even fallen hard along the way to where I am now.  I’ve learned that hatred gets me nowhere.  Hate is a disease that if allowed to spreads like a brush fire that burns and corrupts everything in it’s path.  I didn’t like the burned person I became while feeding the fire of hatred.  Sure people piss me off and they do it often.  You piss me off cause you are preventing me from writing myself into a satisfying position mentally.  Maybe if I treat you like a person truly, I have already personified you.  I gave you shape you have become a shady silhouette that shakes the shades which cover the windows of my mind.  I have learned to some degree, how to tolerate and accept the people who cross my path.  There’s no reason I cannot do the same with you.

What is left to say?  I am fairly sure I have covered the fact that you are a douche.  The sun has gone away, hidden by this doomy overcast sky and with it a chilly breeze.  I can say I feel better and I am most definitely sick of talking to you.  Though as I seem to be drifting to the end of this odd letter of sorts I can feel you knocking and beating on the door.  Part of me wants to let you inside but as the sun peeks around the clouds I know I cannot.  I will not.  I know my friend, the writer, is with me now and it feels good to be by his side.  Mister critic, I feel like I know you better now and I think we have come to an understanding.  I had to talk to you for once, you have been very loud and obnoxious lately preventing me from voicing my thoughts.  I won’t call you my friend but I am willing to give you the floor every now and then, as long as you behave.  The writer really wants to help me murder you so be cool cause the writer is not exactly a friendly guy.  He really can’t stand pompous people so when I decide to let you in again just be wary cause he is watching.  I do believe that together we can get along and together we can be great.  So both of you behave yourselves and that goes for all of you.  I know some of you have stuck to the shadows and haven’t found the right moment to emerge.  I can’t change any of you and I am not sure I would if I could.  Thanks for making this ride consistently interesting.  Now who is ready for a beer?

**Writer’s Note**

This was an effort to dissolve pressure in my head and over come a slight case of writer’s block.  A change of scenery and a different form of writing helped me move past the block.  It was also a great way to gather myself and organize my thoughts a bit.  Writing is a great release.

-April 2012


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