I hate writing.
More specifically, I hate, I HATE writing about something I do not care about. I am never even remotely satisfied with the results. I am more often ashamed of the awful, disgusting thing on which I wasted time and ink and paper.
My paper is pathetic, and small, and pointless, and vague, and indescribably BORING. It is tired, and trite, and dead. It is covered in red pen that sets its mediocrity ablaze with all the fire of a teacher's contempt. Its smoulder is about to be put out. I'm crying on it.
Why are my thoughts worth so bloody little? Why haven't I got a creative, original bit of anything in me? Why do I have no passion?
They say I should write on that about which I care. Stupid preposition placement. But how does that work when I don't care about anything? I don't want to travel. I don't care about Atlanta. I don't care about the stupid Underground Mall. I am indifferent to a Civil War museum. I'm even dispassionate about the Tavern, at this point. SO THIS PAPER WAS DOOMED TO FAIL.
I'm being highly emotional. I realize this. Possibly a result of sleep deprivation. Possibly just biological.
What I am trying to make clear is that I HATE LIFE right now. I AM ANGRY right now. Not at anyone else. Just at me, because I am made of failure and sadness and nothing great or good or even passable will ever come from me.
This is depressing.
Enough.
Oh, love. You DO care about things, and you know it.
ReplyDeleteIt's okay to care about things. It's okay not to care about things.
This post proves that you DO care.
You'll figure it out.
You won't be emotionally compromised.
It will be spectacular.
I believe that.