On occasion, I gorge on my own writing. Like a bulimic, I stuff my face with the oversweet cupcakes and madman whiskey shots filling my post archive. In lonely moments, I can spend hours reading and rereading my old posts and short stories. I self-obsess over clever wordplay, particularly catchy metaphors, expressions, and other literary gimmicks, yet simultaneously, self-harm in bad jargon, never-ending repetitions, lame narratives and other literary fallacies. Still, judgementally, I’m relieved that my self-obsession is not starring at insta-selfies.
Sometimes, when the sun shines on my face, or if that song I like plays on the radio, I delude myself by, for a second, pretending that perhaps in some distant future, my writing career will materialise and perhaps someone will backtrack through these wasted words. Maybe someone will identify their own struggle or find some wisdom in the rows of keyboard-pressed characters. Then just as fast, the idea frightens me, my imposter syndrome reminding me like a bullet to the spine of what junk I write. Better for them to sink into the ocean of lost artistry. Waves on a dried-out lake.
Even in my internal conflict, the words come without control. Yet now, for months, even a year, I’ve struggled to find time, to find inspiration, to find meaning in writing. At best, half-written posts and short stories remain as drafts and narrative gibberish. Again, I ask myself to whom do I write. Myself? Surely. But to what end? So in 40 years, they can bury me with a USB stick?
I don’t mind the idea of my name never going down in history. I don’t care much for fame nor success, at least not in that faker-maker smile-you-are-on-camera type featured on social media. It was a long time ago, that I left the shallow thumbs-up of people as desperate as myself. Instead, I like to believe that there is an almost spiritual meaning to the things I do. That everything I do, you do, transitions into the universal consciousness. Words turn into thoughts, acts into transformations. Waves on the water.
Maybe one day I’ll leave my profession, and succumb to the lifestyle of the artists and authors of more idealistic times. And so, fade into oblivion in the masses of those of greater skill and ambition than myself. …or maybe I suck it up and remain on the trajectory of fading into the masses who accept their fate of being much less meaningful than they believe.
One thought on “Confessions of a self”