Today, on Last Night I went to a Dark Place and convinced myself I’ll never Write anything Good ever again and that I Everything I’ve Written is Mediocre at best and lacks Depth because my Life Experience has been Limited: Last Night I went to a Dark Place and convinced myself I’ll never Write anything Good ever again and that I Everything I’ve Written is Mediocre at best and lacks Depth because my Life Experience has been Limited.
Writers / artists / wrartists: I ask you this: how do we stay inspired, that special kind of inspired that comes from STRUGGLE, from REJECTION, from LOSS, from GRIT, when we are humans and want to create nice, safe lives for ourselves, lives with structure, with love, with routine? How, inside of our air conditioning, can we keep asking questions that burn to be answered? There is a hum of a nice life that is soothing and puts you to sleep. But eventually you are asleep even when you’re wide awake. You drift from soft room to soft car to salad, your whole day an exhale. Your language and world become scripted and cyclical as you find yourself over and over in the same conversation, as your thoughts turn from lunch to new towels. Mindless worry is your trauma. The books on your nightstand are like little doors to little rooms you can enter that contain World War II or Rape or Outer Space. You enter a world briefly, oh how terrible, close the book and get out. Settle into your nice chair, it hums. Suddenly the cat is staring at you. What’re we doing? he stares to know. Couple a pussies, you and me. What are we doing with our lives? We should be HUNTING, man, we should be getting our claws WET.
The connection is brief. He turns his face into the air conditioning.