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Do I Have To Pick Up The Pace
Jan. 21st, 2013 08:51 amI really, really need to write about something, or talk with someone, but I don't have anything in particular to say. Most people up at this hour are waking up or doing their own thing or there's a little snippet of concern between us that I don't feel like broaching.
I made a list. A list of all the things I have to do. Not sure how many pages it amounts to, but it's pretty large. Let's try the three things ... thing again. I have to try.
I want to get away from talking about my life.
Can't I just be happy once in a while? Even if I'm wasting my life, fucking up university, neglecting my real life friends that I know in real life because the friends I talk to are not friends I really know, and almost but not quite getting to the point where I'm churning out semi-regular prose pieces, I just want to enjoy the trivial things that I'm a part of, even if it's part of a familiar, samey cycle. I want to enjoy the things that make me happy, even if there's so many things that go missing from my head.
I always have to fight myself to do anything I don't want to do, or the things I know are important. I have to fight the urge to not want to care. I, aye, iy.
Doing it again.
Contemporary fiction bores me to fucking tears. I miss the days where I read something that enthralled me. I want surreal, strange, beautiful, terrifying. I want characters that pierce the veil of a mundane world and uncover a dangerous, compelling universe. Maybe that's why I'm enjoying the things I'm doing so much - I'm playing through fairytales and collecting research material. I'm learning how to tell a fairytale through characters.
I tell myself it's all useful, when too much of it's just entertainment. But still, I'm going to have to sacrifice something I enjoy to the cult of professional career-making. I'm going to have to learn how to fucking survive in a culture that demands I monetize the things I love doing.
And I have to decide how in hell I can be useful to someone, or something, for more than minimum wage.
The problem is that I hate competition. I hate the idea of competition. Sell a job to me as a race and I'll bow out before the gun goes off. I'd much rather die, penniless, in a ditch than have to fight myself, fight myself and then tell you how much I'm worth as a human being.
I I ay ay ay ay ay--shut UP.
I made a list. A list of all the things I have to do. Not sure how many pages it amounts to, but it's pretty large. Let's try the three things ... thing again. I have to try.
I want to get away from talking about my life.
Can't I just be happy once in a while? Even if I'm wasting my life, fucking up university, neglecting my real life friends that I know in real life because the friends I talk to are not friends I really know, and almost but not quite getting to the point where I'm churning out semi-regular prose pieces, I just want to enjoy the trivial things that I'm a part of, even if it's part of a familiar, samey cycle. I want to enjoy the things that make me happy, even if there's so many things that go missing from my head.
I always have to fight myself to do anything I don't want to do, or the things I know are important. I have to fight the urge to not want to care. I, aye, iy.
Doing it again.
Contemporary fiction bores me to fucking tears. I miss the days where I read something that enthralled me. I want surreal, strange, beautiful, terrifying. I want characters that pierce the veil of a mundane world and uncover a dangerous, compelling universe. Maybe that's why I'm enjoying the things I'm doing so much - I'm playing through fairytales and collecting research material. I'm learning how to tell a fairytale through characters.
I tell myself it's all useful, when too much of it's just entertainment. But still, I'm going to have to sacrifice something I enjoy to the cult of professional career-making. I'm going to have to learn how to fucking survive in a culture that demands I monetize the things I love doing.
And I have to decide how in hell I can be useful to someone, or something, for more than minimum wage.
The problem is that I hate competition. I hate the idea of competition. Sell a job to me as a race and I'll bow out before the gun goes off. I'd much rather die, penniless, in a ditch than have to fight myself, fight myself and then tell you how much I'm worth as a human being.
I I ay ay ay ay ay--shut UP.