It’s nights like these that my creativity chooses. I’m fueled by caffeine and a restless desire to be productive, a dangerous combination if you were to ask me. It’s been a while since my fingers have danced this strange tango between mind, soul, and keyboard. I only wish to actually make something worthy of being called writing. I used to be able to freely conjure up characters and stories. But now what used to be an enjoyable event looms as a laborious task in the waiting. I fear that I won’t ever be able to stop once I find that feeling, the one which so accurately reflects how I feel.
Finding the right words wouldn’t be such a horrible thing either. Sometimes it just all sounds so much better in my mind. The problem is that I attempt to focus on so many different things that my fingers have trouble producing the thoughts on my little screen. Knowing this I plan on taking my time. The music pounds and my thoughts mimic its rhythm. Together we will write, or so I tell myself. If only it were all that simple. If my I could only obey my own commands, life would be that much simpler. Of course I am compelled to over complicate things and make decisions I have many times decided to be the wrong things. And there is definitely no way that I could make any of it any simpler, because alas, that just wouldn’t be me. I like to pretend to be the articulate, educated, and poignant person that I so desperately want to be. I spend so much time trying that I think I miss out on the more important things. Instead of second guessing people and pointing out their inconsistencies I defeat my own purpose by denying myself. The most troubling part is that I know this and despite all effort can in no way solve the problem. I only succeed in making it worse.
All this reminds me of when I used to adamantly and obsessively produce what would be considered personal websites. I’d write stories, most of which were awful, and produce template inspired journal entries and labeled them as content. I was once confident enough to submit my website to a peer review site in which my writing was described as a giant blob of thoughts all of which were written in short sentences, giving the impression that I talk very rapidly. Not that talking very rapidly has anything to do with my writing or that the review was of any merit it does remind me that I lack focus and direction when it comes to many things, which is a good reason why I see so few tasks to completion. It’s just that I get so excited about something that I pour all of my energy into it and end up burning out. My mind runs crazy with a million thoughts but lacks the device necessary to develop even just one. I know that I have the capacity to produce something near genius; it’s just that I can’t seem to grasp the means to organize it. Not even deadlines can convince me to focus and concentrate long enough on one particular thing. There usually is just a point where I don’t want to do anymore. Once I give up all is lost. I’m really talented at convincing myself of things that would not readily be considered beneficial. I have this habit of deciding in advance that my attendance to class the following day is not necessary and somehow I know this is wrong but I can in no way change my mind.
Another thing I’ve noticed is that I allow people to take advantage of my aloofness and forgiveness. I generally pretend not to care, because all relationships are easier to manage that way. However, this habit becomes a problem especially when I’m unhappy and really have no one to blame but myself. I could have put forth ground rules for my roommate, but 6 months into the living situation seems too far to mention anything like that. At first, 8pm bedtimes, neurotic cleaning tendencies, and disrespect didn’t seem like such horrible things. But now all I want to do is complain and I’m pretty certain everyone else is sick of hearing about it. But honestly, what if I want to watch TV after 10pm or God forbid, what if I have to study in the middle of the night. Apparently such actions would warrant extreme bodily harm. Who gave her the right to turn off the lights when I’m reading a book at 9PM. Why is it ok if she wakes up early and I don’t. I wish I had the balls to actually confront her. However, my entire life I have been preached to about tolerance. Make a sacrifice because it makes you a better person. But enough is enough. I may be the better person but I’m certainly not happy living like this. I suppose it’s only about two more months but I feel like I’ve lost the game and damn it I want to win. I’d like to think of myself as more assertive but that’s not how I would describe myself in this particular situation. I guess I’m just the sucker.
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