Basement

He sits in his basement plucking away at a guitar, running the few scales he has memorized and banging out a few chords progressions he may or may not have thought of. Everything gets terribly derivative for him. He recognizes that a chord progression is the same in two songs he loves. "Harmony in My Head" is the same as "Champs." Every song he hears in his head is actually another song. what sets them apart, all songs from one another, is the lyrics or the fancy musical stuff put over the bare bones. Well, the musical stuff hasn't come yet and it's progress is dubious. The lyrics are his in to the music business. Yeah, a rock star, yeah, a hardcore punk guy, yeah, a genius like D. Boon, his idol.

He's smart enough to write right? Where does intelligence siphon into creativity? No one taught him that and no one will. If the public school system was ever lacking, it was in the department of not telling kids: "Here's where we stop helping." No matter how gradually kids are weened off the tit of book-learning, the realization will always hit like an atom bomb developed for use in WWII, Nagasaki, Japan, death, dying, sadness. Every kid hears it in high school that tests won't mean anything in the real world, but they matter right now. Grades will not exist in the workplace outside of employer evaluations, which will come down to the existence of a workplace for the employee. How can he benefit from having good grades? It's not hard for him, nothing challenges him in the physical process of getting good grades. He realizes that his priorities are not thought about in a realm outside of school, but rather that he, in fact, has no priorities. School is a bodily function. It is a routine that he fulfills like the smoker who reaches for packs of cigarettes instinctively. Without school where will he end up? Well that's what college is for. College will solve all his problems.

His sister, his father, his mother, and anyone else he knows who knows about it figured out somewhat what they want to do with their lives for the limbo after college. There is an intense apprehension about self-discovery. The most freeing sensations are always the scariest. Understanding where his basic wants, hopes, dreams fall in the chasm of his personality scares him so much he considers giving in an becoming an engineer as his family, math aptitude, and comfort-drunk attitude beg of him. An engineer is a fine job, he knows, but it doesn't interest him. The desire to learn is defined not by it's converse as happiness is. The desire to do something, to be involved, is more than, is above, is beyond, those simplistic impulses of happiness or love. The ubiquitous examples of those corrupted by the education system that get funneled into careers they know everything about and derive no pleasure or intrigue from are there for him to see. He does not want to be like them.

So he sits in his basement and thinks. About things. About life, existence, religion, philosophy, and he stares at the computer screen and he learns chords and he plays songs and he laughs at his mother's silly sense of humor and he feels wasted. He thought he would be more than this. Everyone tells him he is and he tells himself he is too, but if pain is like a gas, then self-pity is like mercury. He allows every form of self-esteem to be corrupted by the bacteria of his own hatred for himself and no amount of positive feedback can make him forget the ennui of stupidity he blurts out. Metacognition is his shovel and he digs his hole farther down into the depths of inactivity. He is afraid to fail and afraid to succeed because no matter how either comes, it will never feel right.