When it comes to me submitting things to this blog…

…I’ve lost a certain drive to write. I blame myself wholly, but allow me to explain. Starting the blog, I told myself that I was just gonna submit stuff I write and maybe, once I know what’s going on with this crazy experience, I’ll actually start writing specifically for my blog. Pre-blog, I would start a new document whenever a thought manifested itself and my body deemed it necessary to write. And so I did thus came a flood of countless documents, all varying in length, topic, tone. Blogging was my happy medium between physical journaling and collecting a shit-ton of random documents. Or so I thought.

Eventually any time an idea came along that I foresaw myself writing out, it became a question of whether or not I was gonna publish it to my blog. wut. My natural process for explication and creation was disturbed, but to what extent, I did not catch until the damage was done. I ran into a problem whenever this question arose, I was still on the fence about jumping on to this whole “blogging” ride. Sure I could just write a million pieces for a myriad of reasons and just throw them out into the abyss until eventuallymaybesometime someone picked one up and gave feedback. Suremaybeitwaskindacool to entertain the thought of having a semi-permanent audience. It could prove to be much better than the abyss or the confines of my being…sure. But what if…what if someone doesn’t like it? WHY DOES IT MATTER? Well, shit! Fine, fine! It doesn’t matter, you’re right…whatever.

I decided to just submit crap to it, get over the stigma. Yes, that could have dire consequences but I was prepare to deal with them when faced with the alternative: do nothing. Eventually, everything I thought of was on the chopping block, everything held the strong possibility to be submitted. Then things got weird. Pieces that don’t even exist yet were deemed “too short” or “too long”. They were deemed as “unintelligible, who would understand this?” They were deemed as flawed. Things that didn’t even exist yet were being filtered through some weird obsession with gratification and acceptance. With external sources of self-worth. I eventually came to this realization and pulled the plug. What I was left with was disheartening to say the least…

It was a cave. I knew this cave well. I would go to it whenever the colors in the sky started to run. Things were happening, creativeness and life were clashing. Suffering started to breed and so I would stand still, just long enough to feel the Earth rotate and breathe under my feet. Yes, I knew what was coming. Something wanted IN–something wanted to come to life. Something wanted to come into this world so badly that it was starting to possess me. This type of possession can get dangerous though, sometimes it causes me great pains. I would go to this cave. Watch the fire come to life and then die. Against the walls I saw shadows play out. Vague shadows for vague ideas, I took note. The fire would churn and twist out different colors without so much as my aid, it would turn the air into a playground for my senses. Smell quickly became enraptured, and my eyes took in as much as the light reflected as possible. I took note. Then, the fire would die out, like it always does. The rest was up to me, what to do with what I just experienced was up to me. Pre-blog, it wasn’t even a question as to whether or not its publication, its admission into the world–its CREATION would due justice to its inspiration, it just was. It just was, the process of writing. Yet…something happened to my dear friend. Had it become so ill? Was it mad at me? Had I done something wrong? shitshitshit, I ALWAYS do something wrong. I KNEW it! No! No…no, now I know. The scorch marks left on the ground, where it once danced and darted side to side to the cadence of my cheers and awe-inspired facial expressions, were enough. The prints in the soot, left behind by my bare-feet told the story well enough. I had burnt it out. I, in an effort to share it with other people, had started to provoke it in ways that I had never before. It was like I was a caffeine or sugar-crazed addict, only repeating the name of my dictator over and over again until something novel preoccupied my attention—blogblogblogblog. It slowly but steadily, on this slippery slop that I decided to overtake, went down hill. It wasn’t about…expression anymore. Or whatever the fuck I had thought it was all about (though I’m starting to wonder what of it I had thought besides it’s a way for me to feel better, to stop feeling or to feel more clearly). Hell, it wasn’t even about the craft! I would understand if I had decided to become a craftsman of the art–I would no longer talk of inspiration and individuality that so many amateurs like myself would hold so preciously yet rarely understand, that thing that quantity authors deem utterly useless. I would no longer fear the mill, fear the heart-break of the grind. I would no longer wonder about the ethics and consequences of being able to turn out a piece on anything of any length at any time because quality came in the technique not the idea: dress a rock up and even those that studied the Earth intimately would be impressed. My dear Reader, I would have attained an objective state of mind about my “work”. But no. What I had done was lose sight. And so, I lost sight. There was nothing to see except the blackness that consumed the blind. I had blinded myself, this was my doing. Now I just sit here, tracing figures in the dirt. I come up to this cave every day, hoping that maybe at one point, the fire will come back. I hope that maybe the fire will come back to ME. But it is merely hope, the worst of all evils…but fuck. Just call me evil then…

In more practical terms, now I just try to write to write. Yet I find myself still rotating through my old ways, writing to the audience of you all. Oh how to fix this…there must to be a balance! But I don’t know, not really. For this piece goes out to you, my reader. Welcome to the new day, welcome to this new piece, “[w]hen it comes to me submitting things to this blog…”

Edit: I want to take this down. I want to take this down SO BAD. But I won’t. That’ll teach me to post shit in the moment it had come to be! Must let-…things be-…ugly and raw…bah. Hopefully I’ll start thinking about how I’ll feel about a piece after I put it out there for others to scrutinize. Maybe then I won’t put ridiculous extended metaphors or have everything so loosely organized and just…aaaaaaaa. Pretentious, I am pretentious. And conflicted.



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