To the Great Unknown

I’m sitting in a coffee shop wasting time. I came with hopes of holy inspiration but rather my ass is sore from two hours of complete waste. I mean, I did finish Mrs. Dalloway fina-fucking-ly, and I can only place the book down with mere annoyance at my own incompetence. Virginia Woolf is a brilliant author.

My writing has been dull. I flipped through a few of my recent journal entries and they were dry as sticks. I’m just bitching, bitching, bitching. My life is dull. How can you write anything decent when the days are dreary and repetitive? What happened to my vivid prose? My poetry is bitching, and I don’t mean bitchin’ in the good sense. I’m constantly complaining, and when I’m not doing that, I’m dull. I’m discontent.

A friend of mine came to visit Sunday and we talked about discontentment. I try to be positive about life and the journey, but I feel like we’re destined to pretend it’s all good when it’s not. I had told him its better to be discontent than complacent. But really, I suppose neither option is favorable. I want to be excited! inspired! full of Joy and Hope! Rather I’m clinging to the idea that it’s going to get better, but my weight is heavy, and I can hear the branch cracking. And when it cracks I’ll fall, and who knows where I’ll land. Ideas aren’t good footholds.

Twenties are supposed to be the best years of my life! Is it one big tumble to oblivion after? Fuck that. I’m miserable rn.

It is September. After this month I’m supposed to have a story completed. I’m becoming more and more unsure of my dreams of a MFA. I don’t really think I’m cut out for it. But it’s something to aspire towards. So what if I get fifteen rejection letters? Fuck it. Fuck you. Rejection letters make a writer. It means I’m not good enough. And maybe I’m not good enough. But I’m 23 and I’ve got this whole life ahead of me to keep trying. Maybe by the time I’m 30 I’ll be a good writer. By the time I’m 50 I may still suck, but then I’ll be writing for 30 years and I think then I’ll be able to stick it to the man. Like damn, if I’ve been doing it for that long, then I’ve got something.

We live in an age of instant gratification. We post blogs and self publish ourselves. We want likes and we want acceptance and we want fame. So when we get a rejection letter we say fuck you and publish it ourselves. Well, maybe you’re supposed to trash it and do it again, and again, and again, and again, until BY JOVE YOU’VE DONE IT. I mean, this is life. Life is short, but god, it’s long, too. It’s a long road. And right now I’m frustrated and tired and my joints hurt but what other option do we have? Are we going to sit our ass down and bitch, bitch, bitch. Well, maybe. But you can’t do that for long. Eventually you’ve got to pick yourself up and continue. I think a lot of people just plop their pretty little selves down and make camp there. They settle. They become content. I’d rather be discontent. It keeps you alert.

Life doesn’t stop for us, and god knows I don’t want Her to pass me by. Ideas are bad footholds, but god, they’re good motivators. And you know, after bitching on my blog I feel better. That’s why I write. It’s not for you, although my ego wants you to click that little like button so I’ll feel better about myself. It’s for me. It’s a way for me to get all SHIT out, flush it down, and wish it fare-well. I’m a shitty writer. I write shit. I’m unclogging my system, and hopefully when it’s all gone I can peer down into it and see something of worth. I’m a selfish writer. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I wrote things with the idea that it’ll help the collective consciousness, but lord knows it doesn’t. We’re just throwing pebbles and it’s a big fucking ocean. We’re not making any permeant changes here. Just little ripples that bleed into the constant waves. And god, I’m fucking miserable, but we’ve all got a choice. I choose to continue and I don’t know where I’m going but step by step I’ll get to wherever the hell it is. And when I get stubborn and sit my pretty little ass down and bitch like a kid, the waves push me. SOMETHING pushes you forward. And forward is good.

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