I don't really know why it's been so difficult for me to write lately. There have been multiple drafts and countless thoughts but apparently none have been good enough to finish and publish. It's the ongoing battle I seem to have with motivation, inspiration and harsh self-criticism. Being a perfectionist is a pain in the ass.
My intention to 'just do it' hasn't exactly taken off. Well, it did. And then it slowed down and stopped, mid-air, and is in the fast and dramatic process of crashing and burning. My inclination to 'just do it...really really fucking, ridiculously, awesome' has overridden all other philosophies.
I've found both solace and slight depression in speaking to other creative types. It seems as though the people I know are equal parts industrious and confused. I feel I sit somewhere in the middle and have been sitting there for quite some time. My ass is fast becoming deeply imprinted in this writer's block rut. It's infuriating.
Today* I attempted a spring clean. It was incredibly superficial but somewhat effective. I did not dare touch my wardrobe - fuck knows what disasters lie in there - that would require and entire weekend and a lot of discipline and strength. All of which, today, I did not have. Instead, I stripped my walls and cleared out my work desk. A good purge works wonders. Not that I really threw anything out. Just stored away in a box. Out of sight, out of mind.
I feel I have this fear of looking at things in all their excessive, disgusting glory. Facing the situation as it actually is and dealing with it, cleaning it all up, once and for all. I fear the length and depth of that task. Knowing that I would not be able to sleep or eat or do anything other than completely immerse myself in the mess until it was all packed away, shipped off, thrown out. And all I had left, at the end of the day, was the perfect situation.
This is not just about having too many clothes or shoes or books. Obviously. I disguise my oversentimentality with a 'fear of commitment'. Piling more new stuff on tope of old, unwanted stuff, in the hopes that forgetting about them or ignoring them will compensate for not actually getting rid of them. Fucked. Totally fucked up.
What actually eventuates is that everything always remains where it always was.
*By today, I actually mean October 28 2012. In my attempt to find material to just post up because I've been such a slack ass bitch, I went through all my handwritten notes looking for gems to string together or comment on. Which is when I found this, and realised it didn't sound half bad. True to form, it was unfinished in ink. I cleaned my room two weeks ago. It's still relatively intact.
K.x
