I was feeling depressed and irrelevant, so I decided to write. Wouldn't you know it, I log into Blogger and sitting there as an unused draft is basically the exact same emo shit I'm thinking this exact moment. Maybe it won't be as theraputic to just post what I'd already written some 8 months ago, but then again there's no reason to write the same damn thing twice.
I'm betting the reason I didn't post this in the first place is because it is, as I mentioned, whiny emo shit. But right now I'm feeling that everything is completely irrelevant. No, I don't mean I'm becoming a nihilist. Stay with me here -- if everything is irrelevant, then my rather pointless existence isn't pointless... it's just normal.
So here you go, some "brand new" content that's only 8 months old. Just goes to show you truly how little things change:
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I should probably just tell you to stop reading this blog, since I am clearly incapable of updating it in any sort of timely fashion. It's a slippery slope sort of thing: I put off updating again and again, justifying it with some excuse or another, until it's been so long that I think "well, no one is reading anyway." I suppose that I could continue to write "for myself," but that's not how I roll. I do it for you, you see! Don't you understand!?
Just kidding, I'm really a selfish prick. I write because I desperately seek your approval, dear reader. I write because I don't write because I want to talk, I write because I want someone to listen. I write because I want to feel like I'm doing something relevant, something that someone aside from me cares about. Potential Epiphany: Is it because I suck at talking in real life -- that I have no "real" voice -- that I ramble endlessly whenever my fingers touch the keys? Bah, who needs therapy!
Truth be told, I thought I was done with therapy through writing. I thought I finished that in my angst-drenched high-school years with all of my bad poetry. I told Vicki as much. See, I've written Vicki two poems in our time together. One of them was merely okay, a little derivite but it worked -- the other, though, I am actually quite proud of. She's been rather disappointed with my unwillingness to write more for her. I've tried to convince her that's it's no laziness, but the simple fact is that I just don't write happy poems. I've written clever poems on occasion, tongue-in-cheek pieces from time to time, but the only joyful poems I've ever written have been for her. I'm sure that I could write a happy poem if I really tried, but I honestly just don't write poems anymore. I would write something but it would probably be lame and hackneyed and I just don't do that -- I'm my own harshest critic.
In any case, it seems that whatever creative spark I had is gone, or at least dormant. She is sad because she feels that she doesn't inspire me, but she doesn't understand what inspiration is to me. Pain inspires me. Suffering inspires me. These are things that I want to change, and when I write about them I feel that I am doing something to make that change. Self-therapy. When I am happy, what good is self-therapy?
"But Mike," you say, "you're writing now. Are you unhappy?" Truth be told, I don't even know. Either I am, or I am in a severe state of denial. I have things I could and perhaps should be sad about. I failed out of school, debts have piled up, and I still live with my parents (I feel the need to mention that I do essentially give them "rent," so I'm not 100% freeloader). But these things don't make me sad.
I think that I am a simple person. Maybe too simple for the world at large. I just want to do what makes me happy. I don't want to work overtime. I don't want to sit in a boring classroom to get a diploma so I can prove to you how smart I am. I don't want to spend even five minutes making a bed that I'm just going to sleep in again. I don't want to worry. I want to sleep in when I'm tired, and stay up late when I'm not. I want to write blog posts when I should be working. I do (or don't do) these things because they make me happy.
Am I just selfish and lazy? Maybe. I don't dream of being rich and famous. I just want a modest life where I can be happy. I think that the truth may be that I am simply resigned. There was a time I wanted to make a difference in this fucked up world of ours, but I've grown to believe that is not a possibility.
I'm betting the reason I didn't post this in the first place is because it is, as I mentioned, whiny emo shit. But right now I'm feeling that everything is completely irrelevant. No, I don't mean I'm becoming a nihilist. Stay with me here -- if everything is irrelevant, then my rather pointless existence isn't pointless... it's just normal.
So here you go, some "brand new" content that's only 8 months old. Just goes to show you truly how little things change:
----------------------------------------
I should probably just tell you to stop reading this blog, since I am clearly incapable of updating it in any sort of timely fashion. It's a slippery slope sort of thing: I put off updating again and again, justifying it with some excuse or another, until it's been so long that I think "well, no one is reading anyway." I suppose that I could continue to write "for myself," but that's not how I roll. I do it for you, you see! Don't you understand!?
Just kidding, I'm really a selfish prick. I write because I desperately seek your approval, dear reader. I write because I don't write because I want to talk, I write because I want someone to listen. I write because I want to feel like I'm doing something relevant, something that someone aside from me cares about. Potential Epiphany: Is it because I suck at talking in real life -- that I have no "real" voice -- that I ramble endlessly whenever my fingers touch the keys? Bah, who needs therapy!
Truth be told, I thought I was done with therapy through writing. I thought I finished that in my angst-drenched high-school years with all of my bad poetry. I told Vicki as much. See, I've written Vicki two poems in our time together. One of them was merely okay, a little derivite but it worked -- the other, though, I am actually quite proud of. She's been rather disappointed with my unwillingness to write more for her. I've tried to convince her that's it's no laziness, but the simple fact is that I just don't write happy poems. I've written clever poems on occasion, tongue-in-cheek pieces from time to time, but the only joyful poems I've ever written have been for her. I'm sure that I could write a happy poem if I really tried, but I honestly just don't write poems anymore. I would write something but it would probably be lame and hackneyed and I just don't do that -- I'm my own harshest critic.
In any case, it seems that whatever creative spark I had is gone, or at least dormant. She is sad because she feels that she doesn't inspire me, but she doesn't understand what inspiration is to me. Pain inspires me. Suffering inspires me. These are things that I want to change, and when I write about them I feel that I am doing something to make that change. Self-therapy. When I am happy, what good is self-therapy?
"But Mike," you say, "you're writing now. Are you unhappy?" Truth be told, I don't even know. Either I am, or I am in a severe state of denial. I have things I could and perhaps should be sad about. I failed out of school, debts have piled up, and I still live with my parents (I feel the need to mention that I do essentially give them "rent," so I'm not 100% freeloader). But these things don't make me sad.
I think that I am a simple person. Maybe too simple for the world at large. I just want to do what makes me happy. I don't want to work overtime. I don't want to sit in a boring classroom to get a diploma so I can prove to you how smart I am. I don't want to spend even five minutes making a bed that I'm just going to sleep in again. I don't want to worry. I want to sleep in when I'm tired, and stay up late when I'm not. I want to write blog posts when I should be working. I do (or don't do) these things because they make me happy.
Am I just selfish and lazy? Maybe. I don't dream of being rich and famous. I just want a modest life where I can be happy. I think that the truth may be that I am simply resigned. There was a time I wanted to make a difference in this fucked up world of ours, but I've grown to believe that is not a possibility.
posted by Kultcher at Tuesday, July 11, 2006
2 Comments:
Ok, so I'm about a week late, but what do you expect, really? I looked at my bookmarks menu, and I saw "So I Was Thinking...", and I said to myself "Schmitty probably hasn't updated, but I'll click it anyway to make sure." An lo and behold, there was an update. Two, even.
So, yeah, I know what you mean about... well... everything in that post, really. I haven't written a song in months - I have a few lines that I think are usable, but anything that could describe my current state of mind would be (basically) sappy crap. So I'm with you on that front.
I'm also with you on the whole "do what you want because you want to do it" thing. That's pretty much how I feel about my life as well. Why should I do some bullshit when I can do something enjoyable?
Meh. Whatever. Glad to see you're "writing" again.
~Ryan~
Let's make a deal Ryan: I'll start writing again, and you start writing songs again. I'm wondering if the same thing happened to you that happened to me: when I became happy, I lost my inspiration as far as poetry is concerned. I'm guessing you're happier these days, so do you find yourself not needing that musical/literary catharsis?
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