I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow
I can’t pinpoint an exact emotion right now. That frustrates me. As someone who prides themselves on being able to, at the drop of a pin, produce mass amounts of meaningful words on paper, I’m lost.
It reminds me of a scene from Californication, where Hank goes to the church and tells the nun he’s having a crisis of faith, which means he can’t write, which is a problem seeing as how he’s a writer, and professional at that. Well here I am, a quasi-professional … no, fuck it, I’m a professional. I get paid to produce a newspaper in which I’m required to write, edit and manage a staff. From this point on, I’m not cutting it short anymore.
I still am enduring said crisis of faith, however.
I feel that at moments like these I should be able to sit down, let some ice melt ever so slightly before I take the first sip of many of rye on ice (it’s a writer’s curse, the booze) and power through every feeling that is floating in my mind, creating them to make perfect sense in the most eloquent way.
It’s not happening. It’s just not happening.
Have you ever found yourself in the type of mood where listening to sad songs, being alone, in this case in a darkened room, almost subscribing to the fact that even if someone comes in they won’t see you, will miraculously provide a slight glimmer of hope into a better state of mind?
No? You’re likely in denial then.
I’ve lived through a fair amount in my short span of walking this green earth. I like to think that I can relate to most every situation that should ever rear its ugly head into my life. Beyond that, I like to believe that I am able to conquer it with fear or hesitation. More and more, this is not the case.
My life, as I’m so often told, is a mash-up of various genres of movies and songs. I don’t know if this is a good thing, or an overly-pathetic script of time wasted and opportunities squandered. Right now, I don’t really care. But nonetheless, here I sit, sipping quietly to a drink I never should have made, listening to songs that are more fit for some teenage love puppy who just broke up with their first significant other and rambling with words that exude no real emotion or flow. Again, see crisis of faith, Hank Moody style.
Writing is an outlet for most people. They’re usually not very good at it, despite what they might think. But kudos for trying and for at least making the attempt to get your thoughts out there. There are some, however, that are good at. Kudos to you for knowing proper sentence structure, grammar and possessing a knowledge of the word “syntax” means.
I’m supposed to fall into the latter category. I’m hoping this is a “24-hour flu” case of the “writing yips”, but I fear it may linger a while longer, projecting me into a world of vast uncertainty for the time being. I do not enjoy this feeling.
Methodically piecing together a perfect sentence, one with just the right amount of verbs, adjectives, nouns, metaphors and similes is an elusive thing. A finely written sentence is the holy grail of writing. At least it is if you ask me. There’s just something about a sentence that grabs you, forces you to re-read it, and then again. Writing like that is difficult to obtain, let alone come up with on your own.
I don’t think this post has any real direction or flow to it, and for that I apologize. But, in a way, the way in which it’s pieced together actually serves a metaphor for the emotional state I’m in; frazzled.
For some reason I feel like sharing this. If I could be anywhere in the world right now, it’d be by a small creek, in the middle of nowhere, grass that raises up to your waist, surrounded by lush green tress, a soft breeze that tickles the back of your neck as it wisps by, slowly being hypnotized by the subtle babbling of the water on rocks.
Why? I don’t know. Why not, I guess.
Despite the stigma attached to country music, I love it, and it’s actually making me feel better right now.
