Indigence of Meaning

My problem with writing used to be that I simply didn’t understand my own capacity for how much I could put out in one sitting. Given an infinite amount of time, I’d write for about half an hour and then lose my drive for it, or the product would just become so lackluster it would disgust me. I realised this looking back on old entries, many of which end with me declaring I “had more zeal” to write when I started, but it drifted away. I’m still unsure of as to what it directly relates to in the artistic process, but I know now that I can’t write a whole lot without getting not distracted nor bored, but . . . Exhausted, in a manner of speaking. It’s vastly different than from when I draw; that, I can sit and do for hours without dropping. Writing? I can write for an hour on really good nights. It may have to do with the fact that to draw, that involves having one picture in my mind — a goal of producing this single piece of imagery — but writing is made up of many, many pieces of imagery. I never was on to easily find my way to a goal, let alone a multitude of them.

I wanted to take my laptop outside and write like how I used to in the old days: perched on the bench in the backyard or on a stump, but my laptop’s battery is dead . . . Won’t hold a charge any longer, or the charger itself is broken (I really hope it’s not the latter). These days, I don’t have as much time to spend lurking in the night’s shadows as I used to, and I’m feeling nostalgic about that, lately, for some reason. Between work and class, I know when I stay up late that it’ll kill me the next day. Right now, for example, I know I should be sleeping, but I’m not — restless, need to write, need to ramble.

My English professor for the summer course I took — Approaches to Literature — wants me to present my final paper, the research project, to some across-the-curriculum conference. That really flatters me, in a big way that I can’t describe . . . Most people are very apathetic towards my writing, passing it off as acceptable but never really giving it any praise. I think there’s something about writers that makes them horridly detached people, because all their expression is being vicariously funneled into the writing, itself. Writing is a more impersonal art than visual arts, I’ve found; after a while, characters become independent beings, whereas canvases never cease being right there. Anyway, he wants to take it to this conference, and I want to really dress it up and expand upon it, more, because . . . Because, well, I’m a hideous perfectionist and there was a lot that I cut out of that paper, due to time and space constraints: it was 12 and a half pages despite being a 10-page assignment, already. It makes me nervous, though, taking my writing to a conference and presenting it to people.
I’ve never felt overly proud of my writing, because at best I felt it was very mediocre and sort of typical. Granted, I’ve never felt a whole lot of confidence in my art either, for the xame exact reasons . . . I suppose I undercut myself in a lot of ways, in the end. I can’t call myself a poet, I can’t call myself a writer, I can’t call myself an artist . . . Yet, I can, but I . . . Don’t want to? It’s comes and goes, because I know, if nothing else, what I do is unique. Different. That’s all I really want to be, is different. Because, by my standards, worth is derived from a sense of new. Repetitive productions aren’t worthwhile, without some sort of expansion or deviation.
There’s a reason why the idea of there being no such thing as an “original idea” bothers me.

Women? Women . . . women have been bother me. No, not women . . . People — they have been bothering me. But, I notice the trait I’ve been being irked by more often in women than men, because men . . . Matter less to me, in a way. A part of me is programmed to be more concerned with females than males, which I’m not entirely certain is cultural, hereditary, or biological. People don’t know what they want, enough. They don’t know what they want, or are so afraid of pursing it that they repress their true desires in favour for a “low road” that is less fulfilling and more convenient, or less difficult, or less strenuous. It’s a laziness on a grand scale. But? But . . . Who am I to talk about that? I do a very sufficient job of rerouting myself into settling for what I don’t’ exactly want in the name of not being willing to work hard enough for what I do. It’s frustrating, because we live in a society . . . A society, period, not even a society with characteristics specific to itself, but just a society, in and of itself, that causes this. Class, castes, money, economics, whatever . . . It all boils down to the idea of being barricaded from some luxury of life in the name of socioeconomic circumstance. Bullshit, I tell you: bullshit.

Speaking of women . . . I’ve been personally debating between the idea of companionship versus solitude. Is one better than the other, or does one possess as much benefits as the other? Solitude makes me productive, it makes me driven, it makes me . . . Productive. I don’t do as much when I’m with people, because . . . I’m with people, and that, in and of itself, is a preoccupation. It sort of worries me that if I were to be tied down to or attached to any one person so deeply, then I’d stop being an artist, I’d stop being a poet or writer or . . . Anything. I would just be with that person, and that would sum up my existence. I don’t want that, but I can see myself letting me do that because I’d . . . Because I’m me. Deprived? Certainly. Lonely? Absolutely. We all are, to one extent or another; it’s what makes us human, it’s what makes us seek.

A part of me is hideously insecure. The part of me that has spent my entire life listening to people. A part of me is pretty confident — almost arrogant. The part of me that has spent my life hearing people. I can’t forget what people have said to me, about me. I can’t forget what I’ve done, though, to persevere through everything, what I’ve accomplished. Yet, I know, my life is not unique . . . Not special . . . My life is pretty cushy, comparatively, and I could’ve had it a whole lot worse. In a way, I am absolutely spoiled: I have enough pretty lenient civil and financial freedom. But . . . Not everything was easy. Not everything was smooth. Being virtually alone isn’t enjoyable, no matter where you live or sleep. There are so many stories about people who find happiness is the most barren refuge of the world because they have each other. Then, there are so many stories about people who are downright miserable in the lap of luxury and success.
Where will I be, in the end? Surrounded by my . . . My Art . . . And alone? Will it mean anything? Will it have amounted to anything . . . Were I to change the face of Art, would I care, at the end of the day? I know what I think about right before I sleep. I know why it is that I generally don’t dream. I know what it is I would give away everything I have for, when the sun is gone and my eyes turn to the bright-lit moon. I know why it is I create my Art. For what. For who.
I know.
I’ll be alone. With my Art. And miserable. I don’t want that. I don’t.
I can fool myself into thinking that all that matters is Art, for a time. I can bask in the glory of a great creation and forget everything else that I lack in my life. I can celebrate a good poem or story, piece of art or essay, with a toast to myself and a piece of chocolate. How . . . How pathetic, I am, though. How pathetic is that? Quite. Quite pathetic.

I know why it is that I can’t write for long. Because I can’t forget. I can’t forget why it is that I write. Only for that short period where I’ve forgotten this, do I write. That is when I can blissfully indulge in words and phrases, sentences and paragraphs, and all is glee. All is bliss.
But, I remember.
I don’t forget.

What about, now, though? Writing about it? I was thinking I’d no longer feel the urge to continue writing, once I’d said all that. But, I still do. It’s strange.
I need sleep, though. Or tomorrow will be Hell.

G’Night.