Wine, bubble bath, candles, chain smoking and Nina Simone all at the same time. That’s what I did this evening. It sounds nice, right? I thought the idea sounded fabulous after the frantic day I had.
When I say frantic, I don’t mean I was running around like mad. My insides were. Panicked, trapped, afraid, restless and in one of the most heightened states of despondency I’ve been in in quite some time.
I told my grandmother once that I was feeling depressed. She told me that she preferred the word despondent – so now I use the word despondent instead of depressed.
I’ve been listening to Pandora and trying to put Jaron Lanier’s distaste of algorithms out of my mind. Sure it’s depersonalizing, perhaps even somewhat dehumanizing but I don’t care right now.
A lyric from a song I don’t know that is playing just said, “I’m afraid to die.”
I’m not afraid to die.
I’m just anxious that I don’t die before finishing my book.
It’s the only thing I feel gives my life any meaning.
At least, gives my existence meaning.
Yet despite this fact, I feel I’m keeping my best ideas bottled up in my head.
They need to come out.
I’m not procrastinating – not really.
Maybe I am.
I’m not sure. Either way, I don’t think I would still be alive without feeling that sense of purpose.
Maybe I’m afraid that if I do one great thing, that will outlive me, I won’t need to be here anymore.
So I put more than enough effort into research and brainstorming.
Give me 48 hours and I can finish a fucking novel.
I type 240 words per minute and my brain is never short of ideas.
But I stop myself because sometimes it feels like it’s all I have, and if I finish off my only passion that seems to give me a sense of purpose and meaning, then what’s left?
Stagnance, or maybe another idea. I don’t know.
Either way, I self-sabotage the speed of the work. But I still keep chipping away at it.
Anyway, the bath really was a good idea. Maybe the wine wasn’t the best idea. I don’t know why other than the fact that I don’t feel sober. I guess things could be worse.
It’s just that most of my waking hours are spent feeling fucked up and wanting to ground myself back into reality. So I don’t like not feeling sober.
I just have no fucking idea what I’m doing with myself other than whittling away at that novel and wishing I was making more progress, but letting the feeling of fear stop me. Because when I’m done, I’ll need something else to justify my existence. I wish that I could be satisfied with jsut being, not incessantly questioning my existence.
In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “so it goes.”
P.S. I just announce I was done writing, but in all honesty I would like to add that I wish I had more wine.
Thank you for reading. ❤ Artemis