SOME TIMES YOU IRKSOME ME

“If you take responsibility for yourself you 
will develop a hunger to accomplish your dreams.”

“So many of us are looking for a savior to
rescue us. The government. The lover who will 
heal the wounds of the past. The expert who 
will show them “the one thing” that will make 
all the difference. If you wait on these 
things, you will wait a very very long time. 

Only you can rescue yourself. This is not a 
tragedy. It’s an opportunity. The ultimate 
opportunity, in fact. “

I find the above IRKSOME. The only thing absent from its high sounding mantra is the ending. “You idiot.” I’m going out on a limb today challenging a concept of many gurus out there today who preach a philosophy of ‘self help’ I was introduced to W. Clement Stone, Norman Vincent Peale, Zig Ziglar and Napolean Hill many years ago. Long before the likes of Tony Robbins, Les Brown and others. I would not say the latter are charlatans but copycats who have refined the same message in their own image.

I no longer hope for the day that “I shall overcome”, I have. And I know how I got here. Others too often say who have traversed a similar path, “if I can do it, anybody can do it.” I say that’s a false lie. It’s not true. None of us are made so much alike that what fits one’s life is guaranteed to fit another’s.

Now I have hit a stumbling block of remembrances of laying naked on a dungeon floor while others of my age were struggling through high school and puberty and proms and cars, all because I was kicked out of my home which my parole officer used to have me sent back. Oh, there’s more, there’s always more. But where were the soothsayers of self recovery then, where were the protestors of inhuman justice perpetrated against juveniles then. Did they think we were machinery and changing a few parts here and there would be like the kissing of a boo boo and there it’s all better now.

See, I’ve lost my way and can no longer focus my attention on the task at hand. It’s at this point the writer knows what he or she is writing is nothing more than the flailing of their arms screaming into the night. Followed of course by the crumpling up of the paper torn from its moorings in the typewriter and sent flying toward the rubbish can. But this isn’t a typewriter, nor paper, nor someone who minds that they are still not quite happy about yesteryear…..

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