Down in the Valley

Yea, though I have reached my peak in the Valley of the Angel of Mediocrity, I shall fear no fame. That fickle bitch will never know my name. The stars don’t even bother to look down on me, let alone keep a map of my destiny in their back pocket. But who cares what they think? Like most of the rich assholes down here, we barely know their names and only care about what they leave behind when they die.

What will I leave behind? High notes and low. A mixed record as a father. I produced a lot. Not everything was a hit. I’d blame the Engineer, but He’s only employed on paper, and you wouldn’t want to cross his "union."

Which leaves me as the attention-seeking agnostic atheist mad at God for not existing to grant the prayers I pretend not to make. Because I’m too chickenshit to make a deal with a devil who doesn’t want my bargain-basement soul anyway. He’s looking for quality over quantity now. Looks and a bank account are top of his list. He wants someone who truly gets him. Plus, a few of the most shameless influencers just to make his party look like the hottest place to be.

So, down here in the Valley of Mediocrity (no, I haven’t left yet. Looking for plots to build on), I’ll keep fumbling around with words like a teenage boy who can’t figure out a bra. Or an old man who’s forgotten how to masturbate. Not a lot of difference between teen angst and midlife crisis. Just symptoms of time running out.  I’ll keep typing, typing, typing as if I could match the speed of sand falling through the hourglass. I’ll keep twisting and turning these phrases into knots, maybe a long, rough piece of rope, hoping someone gets some pleasure out of it.  Even if it’s just me.