Stream of consciousness rant therapy journal entry that resolves itself nicely into a message and a hope I always knew was there

July 21st. A day perhaps I'll remember 10 years from now, but probably not. Another banana cheerios breakfast fading into the collage of my youth; in the end, what about today was important?

and yet right here, up close, grey sky pulling down over my head in a colorless sunset, this day is bold. it's powerful. it's up close, it's inbetween my fingers, blowing wind into my sweatshirt. today is the day my thousand dollars finally transferred into PayPal. today is the day I put up five reps at 145 on my lunch break. today is the day she told me she left him; and at thirty years old, July 21st will still be nothing.

pushing my pain towards insignificance is therapy within itself; who am I to be in pain anyways? and what else could you expect? (blinded by surefire drivers seat and roses) but still, it takes more than one day to really make yourself believe a lie - so my fingers stumble over cigarettes in my back pocket, the same nervous hands writing nervous words and hoping tomorrow it will help things make sense.

I know that now I'm not okay, just don't know what to do about it because nothing I want is very fair and the rest means silent stagnancy. Hand in pockets, eyes on the children, cutting open from the inside from the pressure from the knowing that the nothing is the best plan of action; an oxymoron that haunts me worse than any other.

The cigarettes are on the table now. Not that they've ever offered me much in way of comfort but something about tobacco tastes like vice and hurt and artistry.

When I look up from the book the world is out of focus. Too close to my own words and thoughts to really snap into the larger picture. The comfort in that the rest of the world still goes on; kids still playing soccer and men crossing the crosswalks. girls in their bathrooms masturbating with detachable showerheads. Maybe not now, maybe not even tomorrow, but that regular beautiful life rhythm is still ahead of me and when I get there - when there's more sun and there's more money in my pockets and my arms are around that beautiful girl - I'll be glad I was stronger than the whiskey or the women or the whatever else lesser men use to cope.

The cigarettes are in the trash. My release relief is pen to paper and 10 years from now, I'll have this to remember.

my July 21st has been shock and contemplation, pain and deaf ears ringing, confusion and aching uselessness, but in a way, triumph.

two things I realize, having written this down and then typed it up:
1) everything written about other people's feelings pretty much sucks until you feel the same way.
2) my writing is ten times better out loud, maybe because then I can accentuate over the parts that are garbage