I Feel Like Crap.
I might as well write about it.
I’m going to take a Kerouac-esque approach to this one. In practice rather than execution.
That guy really mastered the art of creating when your mind isn’t totally your own. At least, that’s how I interpret it.
Letting things pour from you, being unafraid of the result. It exists as you do: imperfect, unedited, spontaneously.
In a documentary about the Beatniks, I believe it was Diane di Prima (RIP as of October 2020) who expressed an exchange she had with Kerouac. How he read a poem she’d written and edited, only to tell her she should have left it alone.
Or maybe she hadn’t edited yet and he told her not to.
I can’t remember entirely. But I found it interesting.
I guess it’s the closest you get to giving an unedited version of yourself to your reader.
I’m not sure about all that. But I certainly have days where I want to pour out my thoughts and leave them; not revisit them even to edit.
It’s painful. Reading my own words and reliving the self-hatred that wrote them. I just want it out.
It may not be any good. But it’s better than stewing in it.
So here I am. Trying to do something productive with the deep — if not disturbing — thoughts in my head.
Doing something nice for myself, if you will; to help myself heal.
Tonight, I feel like crap. There’s nothing bad happening in my life right now; nothing unique compared to anyone else.
In fact, most things in my life are good right now. I have family, food, a warm bed, and I’m taking exciting strides toward my future.
Plus, it’s the holiday season. Mostly good vibes all around.
But tonight, I am not content. I’m dissatisfied, uneasy, just off.
Slightly apathetic to the world because 2020 has been a rough year fir everyone. Just one big grey cloud of a year.
Writing has at least helped ease my mind enough for me to sleep now.