class is soon and i’ve exhausted all other forms of procrastination. i’ve done all the readings, given appropriate feedback, put on an inappropriate outfit, forgot to have breakfast (i actually had two sleeves of oreos and a handful of multivitamins, as if the two could counteract one another), & i danced to the same playlist that’s been on repeat for the past few weeks. i got a call from my boss asking me to work nine hours per day on the last three days of this year. i said yes eagerly; i don’t know why.
when i’m writing, i seem to write a lot about writing. maybe it’s because it makes me feel like somebody important when theoretically i know better. it’s interesting how writing is such a taxing activity: how it requires effort, and concentrated force, and maybe a slight tinge of masochism, and maybe a larger tinge of delusion and a willingness to embarrass yourself tremendously.
usually, when i’m inspired, my writing is way less melancholic, and seems to arrive to a point far quicker than i do. my writing is not something that i feel responsible for, it almost seems like a side-effect of living, a consequence of being here and being forced to think and think incessantly.
what would i do without writing ? i think i would still be writing. in a world without it, i would be the anomaly. look at me so bold and thinking too highly of myself. yes, i would be the anomaly.
freedom to write or the freedom to die. i don’t know what that means, i’m just hoping to work my way into a palatable frenzy and find some turns of phrase to cannibalise the next time i actually want to use my brain while creating. the thing i’m doing right now is brainless. but then again, it’s not meant to be productive: it’s a warm-up, the stretch before a run, the deep breathing before walking out on stage. nobody is meant to berate themselves for not breathing right or stretching right, but here i am, ever-berating, and class is starting, class is soon.