Journalism and a momentary rant with no purpose from a disciple

A moment of magic.

That’s what I thought I’d experience. I remember, I, a child chasing the seductive ball around the endless green pitch, my first love was football, the charming European cousin to the American brute. 

And much like a bitter ending to a French new wave film we parted ways, she was far too good for me, I was not up to the heights of her needs. 

I wept like I was at a funeral, the one in the casket was my dream, and with it felt like my life had come to an end.

Today three years have passed, I find myself in a new chase, this time the damsel of my affection far away from the shine of football’s pure beauty. She’s jaded, rough, and smokes like a chimney, that’s right she’s not football, but she’s real.

She’s journalism. I wonder if she’ll ever love me? I wonder about many things. 

It feels aimless. I’m writing but there isn’t a thing to do this December night, not that stories of the world have dried up, I did.

I was at the peak of the mountain, at least the highest I’ve ever been in this profession, an internship at the Star. It felt like a dream, but now only a cruel dangling of the carrot in front of this starving horse. 

I know complaining is like shouting at the void, certainly as a journo. We’re supposed to inherit the tough-as-nails grit present for decades in the industry, but why must I follow these rules?.

I’ve been a failure for most of my life, everything I’ve tried has washed away at my feet like sand hit by waves. It doesn’t seem to matter just how much I struggle against the world. I’m always drowning looking at my reflection. 

The truth is I’m afraid, I’m afraid to wake up and see zeros on my bank account, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make a living in this industry, that’ll struggle for breath in a world that has no oxygen for me. 

I dreamt of being a gonzo journalist, I still do. Hunter S. Thompson inspired articles, podcasts, video reporting and eventually working on stories that really gift someone something soulful, I don’t care to be rich..I really don’t need much money. 

I chase glory and acceptance, In the end, I’m just a kid who wants to be heard, to leave something behind for this little planet that’s way too grand for me to understand, to fetch an interesting tale to sing as a lullaby to myself, when I’m on my deathbed, cold and trembling.

I want to remember my journalism, pure of emotion and cool, unafraid of anything. A rebel with a cause.

Never have I been good enough at anything, but I can write a decent bit, I hope this can be a start to the metamorphism of this career path, this life.

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