funeral for my pet paragraph

I’m so bummed. I was writing something that seemed exciting and then clicked the wrong button and now it has totally disappeared. I was actually super proud of myself for a minute there and now I feel crushed. I guess that this may be a moment for me to grieve the words that are no longer.

I tend to write each word like it is precious, as something to be admired and worshipped. Hand-selected for an exact moment in time. However, when I read through what I write afterwards, it all looks so random and ill-conceived. The content seem stale and boring; even worse: it sounds like a thinly-veiled tirade about myself. It is hard for me to edit my own words because I do not want to admit that I don’t need all of them. So much is invested in each sentence because it is so hard for me to write from an emotional standpoint.

I put so much weight on each sentence and post that I cannot do the actual work of lifting the message to anything I admire because I admire writing as an act itself way too much. I elevate the form to the point that I constantly feel like an imposter for writing an blog in a small corner of the universe. I believe that every poorly written blog post is a disgrace to the art of writing, an art which has to remain sacred in my eyes. The problem is that it has become so sacred that I’m not allowed to partake in it ever. That’s why it is so hard for me to write. I have seemingly endless ideas and words, but the art form is so precious and perfect that I cannot enter until I am precious and perfect, which never seems to actually happen to me or to anyone. That’s what I hate my own writing. That’s probably why I hate the writing of so many others.

It is like building a cathedral so beautiful and ornate that no one feels worthy of praying inside of it. Who could ever be as holy and as pure as the building itself? Prayers and fears seem small and hopeless within the biggest cathedrals in the world. Who am I to even pray to a God this great?

It might be time to leave the cathedral behind for now. I might need to reduce the glamour of writing. It is words on a page. It doesn’t have to be life-changing every time or ever at all. It doesn’t have to be profound. It can be an activity just like any other. Maybe writing should be less of worshipping at the cathedral of art and greatness and everything holy and more like taking out the trash just because it is collection day.