Every time I start to put down words, I decide that the words are stupid. I’m wasting my time. I entertained the thought that this was about to be a rap. Or a poem. But fuck that. I’m not good enough for that.
I want to get to the bottom of why I’m so discouraged. I think I know why, though. I posted something that sucked. Something that didn’t get any traction. I haven’t been too busy; I’ve been hiding. I got a piss-poor response and I essentially gave up. I haven’t done anything long form for weeks. I’ve hardly even journaled.
At least I found a good phone wallpaper.
At least I got a couple levels in a video game.
At least I’ve gotten a couple levels in a different video game.
Another game comes out Friday.
I’ll hide in that shit, too.
I turned 23. That might have made it worse.
I can’t even say that I’m trying to make this shit work.
What am I going to do to pull myself out of this rut? It self perpetuates. If I let it keep me from making anything, I’m unable to achieve anything that helps me get out of it. I’m at the bottom of a mud hole burning the rope ladder to keep warm. I’m advancing my firemaking level.
I need to go to sleep. It’s two in the morning. I’ve got a big day of work tomorrow. The wrong kind. The kind that’s taking up more brain space for me. I’m remembering things about work while I’m there. More of my waking conscious is taken up by this noise. Orders. Products. Customer names. Statuses. Nothing that is actually important to me.
I wish something would come save me. Some kind of something. A collective. An impetus. But I don’t think it’s ever going to come. I’ve got to do it for myself if I’m going to fix this. But I don’t know if I can. I’ve told Fia a thousand times. She doesn’t need to hear it again. After all, she’s succeeding in the small ways she can. She’s doing it right.
I hate this. I hate this feeling.