Wednesday, 29 January 2014
Angry Days.
Awash with not tears, but anger. Not hatred, but frustration. A difficult fortnight of sickness, anxiety and self-deprecation culminating in a fertile panic spreading violently within me. I become defensive, agitated and reclusive, instead lashing out at myself as I generate fabricated, verbal scenarios in front of me. I am mad.
I can't write. I'm a writer and I can't write. Not quite in the same sense, mind you, but I have to write something. Very important. Very, very important and I can't do it. I don't even want to do it. I hate the inevitability that surrounds it. The inevitability of it going to crop up on an exam paper in June. The inevitability of being castigated for failing to do the work. The inevitability of falling behind with the workload and having to catch up.
All of this misery will be heaped upon me in due course - inevitably.
But I don't want to blame myself this time. I want to blame someone else and that's perfectly acceptable right? And certainly to be expected. Yet, I've reached a point now where I'm too tired to argue with myself or justify anything to anyone. I'm too tired to lie and deceive and to despairingly claw for muddy excuses, it's such a hollow way to approach everything again. So what do I do?
Do I just let it be? Suck it up, take the hit, accept reprimand without mitigation. Or do I fight back? Criticise, denounce and lambaste until I've run my tank dry? Why not both? Or how about neither?
I guess this is a bit of empty blog entry now that my blood has relapsed into a steadying pace and my excessive thoughts have become overwhelmed by an oxymoronic combination of fatigue and insomnia. I mean, hell, I don't even think oxymoronic is even a word.
It is now.
Oh, and in case you feigned interest for even the minutest of seconds, I'm forcibly restraining myself with the length of these (narcissistic?) blog entries with a target range of no more than 500 words. I did originally call dibs on 450 words but then instantly broke it with my ribbon-cutter. Excellent opening. Start as you mean to go on so they say, usually with much tedium leaking through their plastic smiles.
Monday, 27 January 2014
Not today.
Not today.
I take another deep swig of my Languedoc and ponder. What do I really expect to get from this? Is this a nonsensical rambling, or is there some substance to the words I write? Is there meaning and worthiness? Could I inspire a generation with these words? Could they amount to anything?
I doubt it. I think it's the same question everybody asks themselves when they begin writing (or rewriting again). What do you really hope to achieve? It seems the internet is a huge get-out clause these days. Somewhere to unload, unwind and piss out all the shit that clings to your chest pitifully. Because nobody knows who you are, do they? And nobody knows if it's really about them or not, do they? Or do they? You're not sure. Who is? Doubtless there is very little point to what is ever written anywhere, but that's not always a bad thing - don't, for a minute, get me wrong. After my umpteenth glass of this European tipple, I feel like I can write without so much as a worry. I could type for miles. I don't think much of it would make sense, and I'm almost certain most of it would contradict itself, but this is how my mind works. I'm prepared to question everything.
Are you? Or do you follow through life blindly, lapping up everything that everybody else says? Wistful, that's all you'll be. DO YOUR OWN THING FOR A CHANGE. I can't emphasise this enough. Life is far too short and the uncertainty after death is enough to scare most people into being Death's sitting duck. They just do as they're told and fall in line, more automaton than autonomous. Don't be afraid of upsetting people, for fuck's sake, because they won't matter when you're dead and gone.
I know life is scary. Just when you think you've got it all, it's gone. I know this too well and the readjustment into everyday life once it has gone is bewildering and despairing. I will get there though, and so will you. The late playwright Eugene O'Neill once said that life is perhaps best regarded as a bad dream between two awakenings, and I can't help but agree. And Mark Twain once said, "I was dead for millions of years before I was born and it never inconvenienced me a bit," so why should death?
The point I'm trying to make is that life is short. Go. Enjoy it. Do what you've always dreamed of. Only death will stop your regrets if you don't. As scary as death is, or as much as you may want it when you're too depressed to carry on, do you know what I say? I croak over the top of my final swig of this French poison: not today. No way.
I take another deep swig of my Languedoc and ponder. What do I really expect to get from this? Is this a nonsensical rambling, or is there some substance to the words I write? Is there meaning and worthiness? Could I inspire a generation with these words? Could they amount to anything?
I doubt it. I think it's the same question everybody asks themselves when they begin writing (or rewriting again). What do you really hope to achieve? It seems the internet is a huge get-out clause these days. Somewhere to unload, unwind and piss out all the shit that clings to your chest pitifully. Because nobody knows who you are, do they? And nobody knows if it's really about them or not, do they? Or do they? You're not sure. Who is? Doubtless there is very little point to what is ever written anywhere, but that's not always a bad thing - don't, for a minute, get me wrong. After my umpteenth glass of this European tipple, I feel like I can write without so much as a worry. I could type for miles. I don't think much of it would make sense, and I'm almost certain most of it would contradict itself, but this is how my mind works. I'm prepared to question everything.
Are you? Or do you follow through life blindly, lapping up everything that everybody else says? Wistful, that's all you'll be. DO YOUR OWN THING FOR A CHANGE. I can't emphasise this enough. Life is far too short and the uncertainty after death is enough to scare most people into being Death's sitting duck. They just do as they're told and fall in line, more automaton than autonomous. Don't be afraid of upsetting people, for fuck's sake, because they won't matter when you're dead and gone.
I know life is scary. Just when you think you've got it all, it's gone. I know this too well and the readjustment into everyday life once it has gone is bewildering and despairing. I will get there though, and so will you. The late playwright Eugene O'Neill once said that life is perhaps best regarded as a bad dream between two awakenings, and I can't help but agree. And Mark Twain once said, "I was dead for millions of years before I was born and it never inconvenienced me a bit," so why should death?
The point I'm trying to make is that life is short. Go. Enjoy it. Do what you've always dreamed of. Only death will stop your regrets if you don't. As scary as death is, or as much as you may want it when you're too depressed to carry on, do you know what I say? I croak over the top of my final swig of this French poison: not today. No way.
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