Monday, May 2

no links included

I've become resistant to the idea of writing. Anytime I think about it, I'd rather not. I never feel like I have anything to say, let alone anything worthwhile, productive or thought provoking. I feel that way right now, but I haven't been able to shake the feeling lately that it's exactly what I'm supposed to be doing. This damn inside-voice that keeps telling me that to write is to live and that I am most definitely supposed to be doing it. That anything else I do is really a distraction from writing. Writing is a solitary act and it emphasizes my solitude more than I care for it to. If I'm busy on the net, playing games, watching a movie or TV, listening to music or doing some nearly irrelevant task like cataloguing music, creating music wishlists or the other odd sorts of mostly unused random databases that I'm prone to then I'm essentially just living in a state of meaningless busyness, accomplishing nothing. And that is exactly what I'm tempted to go do right now, it seems more and more like an addiction. The behavior I resort to when I'm not at work or involved in some sort of social activity. That realization right there is exactly what needed to be written. It is now undeniable. So, what am I supposed to write about all of the damn time should it be a focus of my life, a primary function, purpose, and goal. I have no drive to write fiction, do research or write essays. These are things I don't really have comprehension of, in terms of the act of creation.

The kicker:

I feel I have a knack for poetry. This scares me for some reason. I've done enough of it to realize how much hard work it is, how much of a craft it is and how much time, dedication and self I need to give to something like that. And I don't want to. But it's what pops into my head time and time again. Write. Write poetry. Try it.

"You used to like it, when you did it for fun."

To see if I could, to see if I'd like what I churned out, to see if others would like what I churned out. And they did. Now it seems much more like a responsibility, something that I need to be accountable to myself for. And damn if I'm not in a near perfect place to do it. I'm single with no kids, no responsibilities to anyone other than myself and the responsibility most people feel to be a non-leeching member of their community. Old enough to understand that life is difficulties, pain, misery. Old enough to begin to understand the importance of sympathy, compassion and charity. Good will towards men. Wise enough to know that it's not about the Lexus, designer jeans and HDTVs. As much as I wouldn't mind owning those things sometimes...

Possessions seem to cause problems. A neverending series of desires to be filled. Have an XBOX then you need more games, an iPod - more songs. A big house - more nicer furniture. I get my drift. There are more games than I can possibly acquire and enjoy. Same goes for music, books, movies. No one can do it all. Yet it seems that everyone tries; in order to fit in, to say I've seen it, heard it, played it, read it. We all want more of something and the only things I can think of that are beneficial to have more of are food, water, money; the things that can be given away and be useful to others.

"How do I know what I think if I don't write it down?" - ?

Cool. What's on TV I wonder?

1 comment:

The Primordial Stewardess said...

Its refreshing to read honesty. Self-doubt can be so pervasive. I find that something like "why am I having problems doing with my life what I know in my soul I should be" should only be tackled when its as if you have no choice. You don't write because you should, you write because you must. But who am I kidding? I use that line of reasoning to be a slacker, I think. Every time I start to wonder where all of the great, intelligent, englightened souls are in this world, I realize they're at home, weighing their self-doubt against their self-recognized beauty, writing honest blog entries. Good luck, A.