what’s different

Posted: May 17, 2012 in hidden admonishment

My writing isn’t currently worth reading. Few interesting or important issues surface, and most of it suffers from a sloppy, lazy, and aesthetically unappealing structure. I don’t consider myself a writer, and I never have, so these problems alone don’t prompt much alarm.

I constantly put down words for the sake of hindsight, and what I have noticed is what bothers me. The irritation with my writing showed up long before I could pinpoint any cause, and most of the time, I’d rather not write anything because of that.

I annoy myself.

I’ve been writing, not for the wrong reasons, but under counterproductive motives. As a result, I’ve come up with a trite and simple explanation…which I find annoying.

During the most prolific and rewarding resurgence in my writing, I wrote shit down in an attempt to connect and feel close to someone; a genuine action followed by a protracted, but ultimately complete, realization of rejection. Swallowing rejection without entirely self-destructing, but while admitting that I still care a great deal isn’t something I can manage with any sense of grace or efficiency.

I still cry about it, but not every day
several times a day
the way I did before.
The intensity of my reaction to thinking about it
doesn’t fade
and it’s not as simple as thinking about it less.

I think less about myself.
There’s less self-pity
I do things that keep me isolated
and I approach others in a way that keeps me distanced.

If I hadn’t forced myself to keep writing
even though I know what I want isn’t here right now…
If I’d stopped, I would have been able to delude myself indefinitely,
so this shit that isn’t worth reading
helps me.

I just wanted a glimpse.

I fucked up a lot, but…wholeheartedly.
Not from over analysis or semiotics.
Just me…fucking up.

The things I’m doing right now don’t matter much to me.
I don’t care about where I work, or who I live with, or what time it is when I finally fall asleep.
I don’t hate myself, so I direct a lot of what looks like anger outward, but it’s just frustration.

Maybe the words won’t come back.
Maybe I’ll get stuck with my petty jealousies and empty anger
this lack of intimacy
and maybe I’ll successfully trade loneliness for solitude.

I don’t know if it matters.


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