This blog has taken me hours to conceive. After the down-talk of the last two entries, I was committed to creating a blog post that was at least mildly upbeat, despite the fact that I am only just starting to come out of the pile of shit that has been this weekend.
My first thought was just to do what I’d done with the last two. I figured stream of shit consciousness was about all I was going to get, and for most of today, it was. But I was adamant that this would not be my only output for the day. I had to get over the hump and find something worth writing about.
So I tried. I scribbled poetry, that was so terrible, even by my standards, that I immediately deleted it from being, via an overzealous backspace button. It was so bad, I couldn’t bare to know it existed in an unpublished form, let alone one that could be read by the masses.
I sat at the piano and bashed about. I came across a magnificent tune, but before I could get it down on paper, I had lost it completely. I threw my notebook across the room in fury. You can still see the dent in the paint where it hit the wall. Oops.
I didn’t feel like reading, so I couldn’t bring myself to write anything to add to my other blog, which makes for far better reading than this drivel. I spent most of my day playing The Sims 3, so angry at myself for not having the willpower to do anything with myself other than improve the lives of fictional characters with no real creativity imbued in their false existence. I couldn’t even find the inspiration to write something on things already begun, not even the novel I’m working on, which features a genocide in its first chapter.
Finally, I thought about last weekend. It was infinitely better than this one, spent in Sydney, full of double book purchase madness and taking of advice from drunken birthday girls (well, one in particular) when I should have known better. It didn’t make me feel 100% better, but it reminded me that I *did* have something to write. It may not be for today, but it was there, potentially vaguely interesting, and perhaps something I could be proud of, in my own bizarre way.
This weekend sucked beyond belief. I was out of bed/my room for less than 10 hours from 9pm Friday night to 11pm tonight. I didn’t leave the house at all, and I barely spoke to anyone. I’m still not sure if I can take tomorrow. I’m twitchy and on edge, still highly seizure prone, or at the very least, I might snap and do something I regret.
But now I know I can write a blog that isn’t all doom and gloom. I can’t tell you what a relief that is to me.
At least it’s a start.