Ugh. Having to resort to writing prompts already. Where is this ceaseless fount of creativity that I claim to have within me, by fashioning myself an artist, a writer?
I’m bored of writing. Write write write and nothing changes. Word after word after word, sentences jilt-y and uninspired, the cadence fragile and mundane, the bedridden whisperings of a man who has lost his mind and regressed to baby talk. I am not the man who looks at a blank canvas and sees a masterpiece waiting to be created. I am a man who looks at a blank page, at the blinking cursor, and sees only an uphill climb, a ceaseless struggle to put thought to fingers to page. Even what I’m writing now makes me bored. It’s inescapable, this feeling.
I’m bored of me. I’m bored of the same endless peaks and valleys that I travel over and into, the same anxieties and weaknesses that persist through my occasional attempts to break myself of them. As of now, January 21, 2016, I am refocused: I am taking time away from dating, taking time to write and play guitar and go to the gym so I can be the person I’ve always imagined myself to be, in my rose-colored mind’s eye. And yet still, just to the side of my focus, like a mote caught in the edge of my eye, there remains the truth that instantly deflates: that I am the same man I always was, that the habits of mine are too deeply ingrained; wheel-worn grooves in a rutted dirt road.
Or maybe, and even more devastating, I think that because I so want to go back to my old ways: by pretending there is no chance of changing, I can more easily accept defeat and revert back into those grooves. Maybe I like these grooves. After all, because they are still warm from when I first crawled my way out of them, they are so comfortable and inviting.
See? This is the roller coaster I find myself on. Some might find it exhilarating; I find it boring, watching as if from a distance with the same glazed, uninteresting look of someone who is watching a movie they have seen, and disliked, and are forced to watch again.