Shoulds & Other Grief

I think I should start taking this blog a bit more seriously: developing ideas and honing my craft. However, I don’t know how to do that and have no drive to do that.

My goodness. I can’t believe I’m writing that, but it is true. I want a blog, I think. I want to work hard at it, I assume. Yet, what do I actually do here? I can write anything, but mostly my self-loathing seeps through. I mostly write very little, as you can see for yourself, and simply about my own hang-ups about writing anything at all.

Is this some sort of rusty pipe situation? Will something else eventually come out if I run the water long enough or are the pipes rusted through? Which outcome should I expect from this endeavor: a clear stream of tap water at the end of this or cockroaches scrambling up the drain?

Can I even call it an endeavor? Is that warranted?

I like the idea of writing off-the-cuff here, but I feel like I should be thoughtful and prepared. I’m just so bored with thought and preparation. I do so much of that already.

I’m annoyed with reading about people and their perfectly planned adventures and their sitcom-worthy setbacks. It’s really draining after a while. All of this follows with inevitable breakdowns and then packaged resurrections where one reflects on how “raw” and “authentic” breakdowns can be. Or, should we call them breakthroughs? I’ll pause for a moment so that you can wipe away your barf.

I don’t know why all suffering has to be so neatly tied-up with a bow. Who are we putting on this grand show for? Ourselves?

What happens when you don’t know how to learn from a mistake? What happens when you don’t know where you went wrong? What happens when you don’t know whether you made a mistake or someone wronged you? How do you write that story?

I’ve lost the thread. I don’t know what I’m getting at. I keep winding up here: talking in abstractions. I still don’t want to write down what is actually bothering me. My hands feel heavy on the keyboard suddenly. I don’t want to write that I feel very upset about writing, about trying, about questioning so much of my life.

I pressure myself to be content with the way it is, but I don’t even know why anything is the way it is. What would I even be accepting?

I had a bad experience in graduate school. That’s about all my stomach can handle for today.