Unorthodox writing for a dire declaration

I would just like to thank anybody whom has perchance come across this blog and found someone whom they can relate to, or anybody, in general, who has even read a single line I have written here. There are singular truths in mindful insight. Individuals, however indifferent, are the impetus for my writing. If even one person finds some meaning, a truth, or a nugget of hope, I feel that is cause for celebration and rejoicing. With that said, there isn't a doubt in my mind that if things had gone a little differently I would be writing about something else entirely different, something more meaningful, something truer to myself, whom I am, what makes me whole but I can't write that. I can't hide the emotions, anymore, welling up inside me.

Working 3 PT jobs, watching myself drink without reason, partying without happiness, failing miserably at even managing my own life, while trying to adjust myself to an uncertain future even i'm not hopeful about anymore is creating two halves of my whole self. There are times when I'm out having a good time with my friends and buying rounds I think the worst is behind me or I can forget it and leave the problem to the future Shawn, but lately the other half has been winning-the side that doesn't want to go out and drink, wants to sit at home and mope, that creates controversy where none need exist; further, that shouldn't even be a cause for concern at such an important juncture in my perilious journey that awaits me.

journey (n.)

1.	a traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time; trip: a six-day journey across the desert.

2.	a distance, course, or area traveled or suitable for traveling: a desert journey.

3.	a period of travel: a week's journey.

4.	passage or progress from one stage to another: the journey to success.

maybe journey can mean something else entirely different when used to describe me. Without going anywhere i've managed to somehow disconnect with the world around me and find myself living without hope or purpose, dutifully trying to posit my existence in this realm and somehow meticulously claiming a stake in a future yet-to-be-determined period of fulfillment. In lamen terms, i'm just going through life without living it.

Here I am, literally, in my parents house. 26 going on 27, going on 40, single, going on eternally single, a lifelong bachelor--unfulfilled, a sarcastic comment at every turn, a quip for every truthful opinion (honest, but stinging). I'm hurting. There are no rhymes or reason for my story.

The story unfolds-I've hit the climax.

Climax: the high point in the story - the turning point where the conflict comes to a head and is decided for one side or the other- usually the most exciting point in the story

The truth is...it wasn't always like this. It never had to be like this. Fleshing myself out for would-be critics and prophetics. Cynics whom told me I would never amount to much have finally had their day. Every dog does. Roberta Fleck take me home. What are you doing to me 'softly?'

It'll all hit home in just a few more days. The debt, the unpaid bills, the screaming and shouting, figuring out i'll definitely have no more home by the end of this equinox...Still can't get it through this thick skull of mine. Gotta try to be the smartass everybody's gotta love. Gotta be the player, the butt of jokes to fit in. I never really fit in, I just made myself a seat at the table.

The door closes...when do we get to see the ending and the falling action of the play? Stay Tuned until the next chapter