Underwhelming

Like I mentioned before, I'm not quite sure there's a person inside me beneath all of my self-imposed emotional clutter.

These past few weeks I have become progressively more intolerant of the mindset that has governed my thinking for the past, oh, 39 years, or so. I'm really beginning to be annoyed at those obsessions that have always been at the forefront of my thinking.

I'm not sure I even like the thought of calling myself a guitar player any more. It has occupied my mind throughout every waking moment for so many years, and now I discover that it was never a passion at all, just an obsessive crush on an inanimate object; I feel betrayed by my own mind.

I guess it's similar to the feelings I experienced, the questions I asked myself, when my first marriage was ending.

"Why did I marry her in the first place?"

"Did I ever even love her?"

"Was I just trying to prove something to my parents?"

I haven't spoken to my ex-wife since that final phone call that ended with her stating defiantly, "I'll see you in court!"

Empty words. She never showed. I was in and out of the courthouse in less than 5 minutes.

"Why did I start playing guitar in the first place?"

"Did I ever love it?"

"Was I just trying to prove something to my parents?"

To be honest, right now I just don't know the answers to those questions.

What I do know, however, is that I'm not about to trade in one pipe dream for another. Yes, I love to write, probably because it lets me speak uninterrupted, but I refuse to allow myself to fall into the same mental snare that had me believing that there was some grand purpose or design for my music.

I'm not going to trade one obsession for another. Never again.

When I was a young kid I could list the stats for just about every plane in Boeing's fleet. I was going to be a pilot - a missionary pilot, nonetheless.

As I grew into a pre-teen I became a total LEGO guru. I quite literally built things in my sleep. I was going to be a LEGO designer.

When I discovered the electric guitar my life began, or ended, depending on how you look at it. I was going to be a rock star.

I'm not about to start calling myself a writer.

I'm tired of my inane need for identity. I'm a person, but I'm not somebody. I'm just a guy; a husband, and a father, nothing more.

In keeping with my all-or-nothing attitude, I'm really tempted to rid myself of anything that reminds me of my obsession for guitars. My wife has told me to hold off on clearing it all out in case my son may someday be interested in playing. I can't argue with her logic, especially considering how much I regret having given all of my LEGO away to a couple of kids in Atlanta whose mother was a regular customer of mine. What can I say? I never thought I'd have any kids. My ex-wife had undergone a hysterectomy and since I never really considered divorce until a couple of weeks before I kicked her out, I assumed I'd die childless.

Still, I'm very irritated knowing that the objects of my obsession are still occupying several square feet of my already cramped flat, and yes, they are still occupying quite a bit of my attention and thought processes.

It really gets old after a while.

Speaking of old, I'll be 40 in 6 weeks. Maybe it's time I grew up.

I need to figure out how to make the downhill trip as tolerable as possible; for myself, and for those who rely on me.

It's time to become boring!