What do I have to offer the world? That seems to be a question that almost everyone asks themselves.
I’m only twenty-two and I worry about this a good amount. What do I have to offer the rest of the world, to better it? What if writing isn’t my calling and it’s simply a hobby, nothing more?
What if being a ditch digger is my real calling? My skeletal body type would disagree but it could still be true.
I sometimes get weird bursts of confidence that make me think “Yeah, writing will be hard and tiring but I would be doing what I love, and isn’t that enough?”
My logical side kicks in to answer. “The world doesn’t want you to do what you love, it wants to turn a profit.”
Would writing be the same if I was being paid for it? I’ve always considered it an escape.
What good is a panic room if it constantly has a spotlight on it and is shaking?
In short, I don’t know what I want to be or even if I’ll be really good at anything. But that’s what life is about right? You go through it and attempt to figure yourself out, making a few decisions along the way.
Piece of cake.
When I read Writing Down the Bones or Bird By Bird, I can’t remember which, one of them talked about paying more attention to your surroundings. They also said that a writer is always analyzing their surroundings and thinking things up as they go about their day.
My default state is that of daydreaming, especially when I’m out somewhere; I sort of go into autopilot. I’m attempting to remedy that; I’m trying to snap myself out of my trance and focus on what’s happening around me, rather than just floating through. I think I’m making a bit of progress.
It’s strange to say but it sort of wears me out after a while, maybe this is because I’m not used to really focusing in on people and objects around me. I believe that I’m getting a bit better. I notice some things more and really try to think about the people I’m conversing with, like my grandparents for example. I try to stow away little thoughts and ideas I get from studying someone or something for a bit.
Practice makes perfect as they say and I feel as if this skill will only benefit me the more I work on it. Long story short, just try to pay attention to situations and people around you more, you never know what could pop into your head.
Do you ever feel like your words have no weight, that they’re just floating through your fingers and onto the page?
Do you ever feel like what you say has no power?
How about wondering whether or not you’re even doing what you love, or maybe that no one will take it seriously including yourself.
The crushing reality is that art is suffering.
Funny that, I don’t consider myself an artist.
why am I suffering?
The thought of being on my own has really been pestering me as of late.
I have friends who live on their own and, from what they tell me, it sucks.
I still remember going out with a small group of friends one night, a couple of years ago… jesus.
We went to a Waffle House and got some late night breakfast food. My friend Connor, he lives on his own, ordered a coffee. When it came he said “Oh thank god, I can actually drink coffee.” Now, I don’t know if he was just trying to be funny but the way he said me made me think that he was serious.
It has stuck with me because being an adult seems to just be about micromanaging your money. You could have everything on a nice schedule and then a huge wrench could get thrown into your plan.
I’m a planner, I like lists and consistency. Adulthood seems to be the polar opposite of that mindset.
It both excites me and scares the hell out of me.
The worst part is, there’s no stopping it.
It’s going to happen.
The idea of being an outgoing person is so foreign to me.
I don’t have the drive to go and do things. You can see how this would be a problem for a budding adult male such as myself.
There’s more to life than being a recluse right? Right?
I don’t know how to put my thoughts into words and the few times that I do they feel like inadequate descriptions.
Please don’t ask me about the future. I don’t know.
I don’t know what I want, where I’m going, or where I’m not going.
Let me work through things…
Rarely do I find myself moving from the two spots that I write. One is at a desk and the other is at the kitchen table. Also I almost never allow myself to write without music, as I’m doing right now. I wish to break both of these bad habits.
While listening to music can help others get into the world that they’re writing about, most of the time I find it distracting. This would probably explain why I sometimes, most of the time, feel bad about my writing or feel that it isn’t up to par.
Right now I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed. My blinds are opened and my window is cracked. The only sounds that inhabit my room at the moment are the constant whir of the ceiling fan, and the faint noises from outside. The leaves rustle in the trees, birds chirp in the distance, and sometimes people walk by the house, their shoes clapping against the asphalt.
This… feels good. I feel like I’m more open to myself. I feel like my mind is more free to wander and I feel a sense of calm flowing through my as I write. The calmness is helped along by a tea & lemon scented candle that I have burning at the moment. The room is filled with the smell and it makes me think of my grandma’s house from when I was little.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: turn things off once in a while. Technology is a great and wondrous thing but when it comes to writing, for me at least, being left alone for a while can do wonders.
I have a hard time slowing myself down.
The cultural that I’m surrounded by is moving like a gnat on cocaine and I can’t keep up.
Future future future, dinner tonight, boredom, eventual hatred.
I have to grip my mind and force it to a crawl.
Don’t run out of your shoes.