An Escape Attempt

I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, besides the things that are required of me. These things push me around in my life. I feel like a pinball that cannot move on its own free will, but requires springs and bumpers to jolt it forward towards tunnels and holes contained within the machine. There are these things I would want to be; these careers I feel would define who I am better than what I’m doing now. For instance, I love to listen to journalistic stories, and short stories, but feel the capabilities of creating such a life as beyond my skill set. My unfortunate skill set sets me up as the listener for everything. For reading, I am the receiver; I haven’t been the developer. I want to create the machine, and set my own pin balls into motion. What does that mean I want to become though? Does that mean I want to imprison others as I feel I have been imprisoned? If I were a journalist, I would be talking about a pre-existing pinball, within a pre-existing machine. I would not necessarily be the creator of the device, but I wouldn't be helping the pinball escape his machine either. What would a pinball be outside of his machine though? Just a metal ball being kicked around on the floor of the arcade, by people who are dropping pizza sauce on the floor on their way to play the pinball machine (that has no pinball in it)? I suppose I need to just do something, as regards to nothing. At least doing something may lead somewhere; whereas doing nothing has a definitive and absolute end. I am tired of expecting what happens when I do nothing. I am tired of setting myself up to be a lifelong listener that does nothing about what he is hearing. What if I stood up for all those pin balls I have listened to; all their stories; and helped people at least become aware of their perspective. Perhaps part of getting out of the machine isn't necessarily getting out by yourself (after all you are a steel ball with no means of self-propulsion). Perhaps getting out of the machine has everything to do with getting someone to notice how unhappy you have been bonking around at everyone else’s whim. I don’t know if I should begin by telling my own story, or if I should always try to leave myself out of it in true journalistic fashion. Either way, I have reached the point where continuing to be the machine’s whore has been divorced from my consciousness as something I can live with.