I was going to write about how stressed I am right now. It has been an incredibly intense morning, full of unnecessary pressure, and none of it is related to work. It’s more heaviness for little reason, and I’m feeling more and more like an emotional punching bag, and I don’t know for much much longer I can do it. I don’t want to write about that, however.
What I do want to write about is the lack of knowing what to write about. I want to explore that and see where it goes. See where it leads. Sure, I’ve done that before. I’ve done that way too many times and that, too is unnecessary at this stage, but that’s what I want to write about. I want to write about that and write about being some sort of adventurous explorer who goes on adventures and explores in order to work out what to write. You know, the well of inspiration has been tapped, and so they feel that, in order to awake their restless spirit and write with the great poignancy they believe they are entitled to, they must explore and all of that stuff.
And so off exploring I’d go, and I’d look under and above water. I’d cross great oceans, visit cultures I am ignorant in the ways of, find myself lost and feeling lonely and isolated, and I’d wonder about all of this. I’d wonder about what it all means and how I am a part of it, but I’m not, and perhaps, eventually, I’d figure out that all I’m doing is running away. It wouldn’t quite be obvious at first, but gradually it keep creeping in.
How this would be happening is my lack of inspiration from what’s around me. It’d be what I’m seeing that is out there, and all this wonder which would carry with it a profound sense of overwhelming age and experience, and my increasing feelings of insignificance and appreciation, and none of it, whilst absolutely fantastic, would actually inspire me. None of it would fill my well. None would quell my dissatisfaction.
So eventually I’d realise, and I’d realise that on the way home, after giving up on all this work and effort that I’d put into trying to find a new source of inspiration, that it was all at home and I was looking for something that hadn’t run out, but rather I had not worked out how to keep making the most of it, and it took all of this journeying to work all of that out, and all this time and experience. It was all appreciated and it opened my eyes, but it did not cause me to stir and rise, and it didn’t lead to new frontiers in writing, and so I am left wondering what to write about, and how I keep digging into what was already there for me, waiting to be dug into.
Hard life and all that, this looking for inspiration stuff.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 08:06:86
Speed’s okay. Slowed down a bit, had to think about what I was writing and where it was going. Don’t think the result is great, but I do like the silliness.
Written at work.
Stupidity Hole 