It is a peculiar thing how quickly we get sickly.
The Lonesomeness of Busy-ness
I have many things I’d like to write right now . . . I count at least three or four. I’m not really gonna do much about that, for perhaps it’ll all spill out as I let my fingers dance.
This process of writing, this journey I’ve embarked upon, has really set me apart from everyone around me. Most people, it seems, just don’t understand me to the core. I know this must be an at least sort of false perception, but part of it is true.
I just can’t fathom the lives of so many people I see, and they, likewise, could not fathom mine.
People just don’t understand, or very few do, how it could be that someone is always so busy. And I, on the other hand, can hardly fathom how someone could be so available. And not in the open to new ideas or critiques sort of way, but in the they have 10 hours a day to do fuck all sort of way.
Both sorts of existences have their drawbacks . . . My sort being that of self-discipline and seasons of self-inflicted suffering and lonesomeness for the sake of some unguaranteed outcome . . . And the other sort being that of purposelessness and many moments of indirection and insecurity—or something like that.
And I’ve come to find more of a balance between the two because there is depth to be found on either end, but there is so too a shallowness that lurks.
An Undedicated World
I don’t know. . . I’m a very dedicated and patient person, and it hurts when I see people who aren’t.
Being a dedicated person in a place that’s not so dedicated, in a place where people would do anything for the outcome they desire, where it matters not what they do in the shadows, and only when some set of eyes lay upon them.
I am not like that.
I once wrote a paper titled “Why Good Leaders Don’t Piss On Toilet Seats.”
I try my best not to piss on toilet seats.
Unfortunately, somehow, most people in this country who find themselves with a whole lot of eyes on them are the sort to piss on the seat of a toilet and not wipe it up.
Daily Journaling
It’s interesting what this daily journaling process has done for my writing.
It started out really not that good, and now much of what spills out onto these pages, at least for the past several days, has been quite good.
I think I’m gonna turn this summer into a book.
Chasing Tinges
Every time I try and put my finger on something, it slips away.
Which reminds me of this very weird tinge sort of thing I used to have and haven’t had recently but will very likely have again in the future.
I don’t know how to explain it . . . It’s almost like this string of yarn I imagine in my head, and I don’t really know why it pops up, but it does, sometimes, and the more I try and put my finger on it, the more I freak out—almost in a nauseous sort of way.
In fact, I’m a little queasy now.
Achieving Depth Via Repetition
I’ve been writing so much, in such a disjointed way, that it’s nearly made me anxious because I’ve actually quite enjoyed much of what I’ve said and want to share it, but am unsure whether I’ll ever bring myself to sort through it all.
Fuck, I just had something I wanted to say, but I lost it.
Whatever. I hope it comes back to me, that was a good idea.
It had something to do with writing, I think. It must’ve been about the process. How much I’ve enjoyed it, what it’s brought to my life . . .
Oh yes!
I think this was it . . . Just how therapeutic this process has been. It has, indeed, been very therapeutic and actually quite an experience of growth because I’ve woken up and challenged myself to be better every day.
Don’t get me wrong: I love this shit. But it’s by no means easy. It is by no means for the faint of heart. You’ll hardly ever meet a softie who’s woken up and done the same thing every day for years on end. Only the hardcore patiently endure.
Repetition will make a beast of anyone.
But yeah, I mean, I noticed yesterday that when I write, I learn because I create new ideas, I work through things that don’t exactly make sense to me, and without knowing it, I become more knowledgable, or something like that . . . I’d say it’s more of an awareness because I’m setting in stone, putting in front of my face, these things I hold in my imagination, that I’ve yet to sort through.
Because everything sounds good in our heads, but until we sort them out, we don’t really know shit about them.
And I only say this now because I was on the phone with someone yesterday, and I had started suggesting things that I had never before suggested, out loud at least, and it was actually quite coherent, and the person to whom I was speaking really resonated.
And I know the only way I had ever come to think any of this was to write about it . . . Because I had written about it, and I’d never before spoken of it to a single soul.
And it just flowed out of me like prophecy.
Dreams of Abandonment
There is something I feel sort of disturbed about last night—or not really disturbed, but stirred.
When I look at all my messages, I get this feeling.
Last night was sort of weird. At the core of it, I feel, to a degree, abandoned.
And my dreams last night, they were really something.
One was about me fighting this kid because he bumped into me—which actually happened at the bar last night (the bumping, not the fighting)—and the person I was going to fight morphed from a comic YouTuber I watch to one of my best friends from high school.
And the other, that one is evading me right now—I think it had something to do with how people hadn’t—oh wait. No. It was about how the earth will be struck by a planet in 2030, and it was all gonna be over or something like that . . . And there was something more to it, something about not feeling cared about or whatever.
And it’s weird because the night before this, I dreamt I ran into one of my best friends, whom I had not seen in at least three years, for circumstances indescribable, and he acted like he’d never before known me.
And so last night, I did sort of feel like this . . . Uncared for. And I don’t know why this is.
Because many people do love me, and I love many people.
Riding Inspiration
I’m getting better at riding the waves of inspiration that strike me and also being okay with flat days. Though I’d say, as time goes on, or really, as I gain more clarity and become more patient and enjoy what I do, I have less and less of these days and have actually not had one in at least 5 days.
And that’s really just because, I’d say, I’ve let go of so many things I was holding on to.
I don’t care what I say now, I just say what feels right.
I am merely a receptor to inspiration around, and when it strikes me, I thrust myself into it, until the wave dies, and then I turn back around and head back out to catch another.