(I wrote this post last night, because I have a busy morning ahead of me. Warning, it may sound bleak and depressing)
Another day. Another series of fuck ups great and small punctuated at either end by sleep. Another failure.
That’s the worst way I end a day. It’s not how I feel right now, but its close enough.
Well, I can’t say exactly why. Let it suffice that I’m working freelance and I don’t want to do this much longer.
I don’t like living other people’s realities. I don’t like trying to tell people what to think. And I’m writing something that means both. I don’t like it. But I will do it. Take the bitter pill, the hard medicine, the only kind one never forgets.
I like MY dreams. I like my monsters. But perhaps I don’t like them enough. I’ve been driven to write for almost ten years and before that I was creating monsters and worlds and small stories on their lonesome for roleplaying games and myself. But maybe I don’t like it enough. That’s a depressing thought. If I don’t enjoy writing as much as I used to then what am I supposed to do as its what I’m now being paid to do?
This question is all I have today. My father suggested that perhaps I don’t really like writing that much. But he knows nothing about me in this regard. He and I have never understood why the other does the things the other does. Still, I’m afraid this time he may be right. As these years of writing have gone on I have diminished in enthusiasm from the peak some five years ago. Never after that have I been as excited to actually put words down.
Of course my love of life has never been high. Perhaps I’ve been too invested in the trappings of happiness. Friends, family, fun.
The real heart of happiness is not in those things, at least not for me. When those are helpful at all they still eventually leave me breathless and hollow, as much as I enjoy them. They do not sustain me. But does my work? I don’t know. Perhaps its just that I’ve not worked enough if work is what sustains. Am I like a starving man who does not have enough strength to feed himself and is doomed to wither away despite the feast now laid before me?
I doubt I am making much sense, but I hope you’ll forgive me.
Days get harder the longer they wear on.
(No features today, but I hope it goes better than the one that inspired this post. Instead, please accept this commentary on the above that wlll likely make me sound bipolar as it was actually written this morning)
* * *
I don’t really like ‘work’. I want to have a good time. But I think this is a flawed approach to life and accomplishment. Obviously I should fine fun where I can, but practice can be boring. And I think thats normal. One of the reasons I’m afraid of writing, I think, is thaat I know how my work turns out when I write cold and outline too much. It isn’t good. But… I need to be able to do that, especially for freelance projects.
Also, I feel much better and more relaxed in the morning, especially the early morning.
In any event, I don’t have a lot of time his morning so this will have to do for now. Hope all is well with each of you.