The truth will set you free...
Everything is false.
I promised myself that I'd be positive about the conclusions I'd come to this weekend. My mettle is being tested because I can't say I'm exactly happy, but I have no one to blame besides myself and my own delusions, my own suffering. I'm trying my best to make it positive and suffer beautifully.
The tip of the iceberg, not that you'd really care to know, is that I did worse with NaNoWriMo this year than last year. Ho hum! Big deal. Better luck next time. This has caused me to look at my skills as a writer and find myself lacking discipline and commitment. I feel very much a fraud and charlatan. I have such high aspirations and yet I seem unable and unwilling to come even close.
I been such my whole life. I've wished to be more than mediocre, but I've only believed what I can produce to be mediocre, so I believe the results have never risen above mediocrity. I do so much better in my professional life, yet I get little joy from that. There is the idea that I can apply myself to my professional life so that I can support my creative life, yet the cost to my soul is too heavy. I remain even more mediocre because I cannot practice my craft as thoroughly as I wish. It is a vicious circle and I suspect that when push comes to shove I'm going to buckle under the strain. See, I'm so cliche'd.
Only I don't believe that giving up is an answer. Sissyphus still struggles to roll that rock up that hill, knowing at the top it will only roll down the other side. Is it so important that this rock should balance at the peak, when nature demands that physics keeps the rock at the bottom of the hill? Perhaps not. Yet I've succeeded at worse odds in my life. My little hope, my last refuge, keeps me aloft and working when I despair against the odds of reality.
I wish to be admired by worthy individuals and I can say that many are already my friends. In order to be an individual, I need to be true to that desire for admiration, because it has been my only motivation and consolation at these times when I've been down and out. Somehow I know I will survive even this time and I will go on as I have always until such time that I lay my head down for the last time. Can you believe the cliche'?
I bear no ill for those who cannot admire me. They have not failed me. I have failed them, if anything. I still have hope that somehow I will cobble together the right combination of magic and talent to charm them. But what then? Once my magic ends, my talent wanes and my charm fades, who will be there to comfort me, besides myself? I've asked myself that question my whole life. I do not fear the answer that has always echoed in time. Cliche'd, cliche'r and cliche'st.
So I shall do just what I always do, play a little harder, dig a little deeper. Someday I believe I may even hit paydirt. Until I do, I'll write poetry.
I promised myself that I'd be positive about the conclusions I'd come to this weekend. My mettle is being tested because I can't say I'm exactly happy, but I have no one to blame besides myself and my own delusions, my own suffering. I'm trying my best to make it positive and suffer beautifully.
The tip of the iceberg, not that you'd really care to know, is that I did worse with NaNoWriMo this year than last year. Ho hum! Big deal. Better luck next time. This has caused me to look at my skills as a writer and find myself lacking discipline and commitment. I feel very much a fraud and charlatan. I have such high aspirations and yet I seem unable and unwilling to come even close.
I been such my whole life. I've wished to be more than mediocre, but I've only believed what I can produce to be mediocre, so I believe the results have never risen above mediocrity. I do so much better in my professional life, yet I get little joy from that. There is the idea that I can apply myself to my professional life so that I can support my creative life, yet the cost to my soul is too heavy. I remain even more mediocre because I cannot practice my craft as thoroughly as I wish. It is a vicious circle and I suspect that when push comes to shove I'm going to buckle under the strain. See, I'm so cliche'd.
Only I don't believe that giving up is an answer. Sissyphus still struggles to roll that rock up that hill, knowing at the top it will only roll down the other side. Is it so important that this rock should balance at the peak, when nature demands that physics keeps the rock at the bottom of the hill? Perhaps not. Yet I've succeeded at worse odds in my life. My little hope, my last refuge, keeps me aloft and working when I despair against the odds of reality.
I wish to be admired by worthy individuals and I can say that many are already my friends. In order to be an individual, I need to be true to that desire for admiration, because it has been my only motivation and consolation at these times when I've been down and out. Somehow I know I will survive even this time and I will go on as I have always until such time that I lay my head down for the last time. Can you believe the cliche'?
I bear no ill for those who cannot admire me. They have not failed me. I have failed them, if anything. I still have hope that somehow I will cobble together the right combination of magic and talent to charm them. But what then? Once my magic ends, my talent wanes and my charm fades, who will be there to comfort me, besides myself? I've asked myself that question my whole life. I do not fear the answer that has always echoed in time. Cliche'd, cliche'r and cliche'st.
So I shall do just what I always do, play a little harder, dig a little deeper. Someday I believe I may even hit paydirt. Until I do, I'll write poetry.
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