Day 262: Yoghurt pot

No. No. I don’t wanna. I’m not doing it. I’m not doing a post today. I’m too tired. I can’t form words.

Apart from these. These are words. But I can’t form any good words. That’s the problem. I’m too tired to manipulate my writing to make it appear good, make myself appear talented, and I don’t want to have to write this and to show how untalented I am. Even those sentences there, I was trying to manipulate my words by saying I was too tired to manipulate my words - all as a way of attempting to impress you.

Why does that matter? Why do I give a shit about impressing you? I mean, you’re an idiot. Come on, you are. Look at you. That top does nothing for you. And you can never explain socialism succinctly when children ask you about it. And you keep writing whomever when you mean whoever. It’s the subjective case. Idiot.

I’m doing it again. Trying to impress you by pretending to insult you. I can’t escape myself. What a nightmare.

Anyway, these are words. Once you stop worrying about writing good words, which, let’s be honest, you can’t make happen, it actually becomes a lot easier to write. I’m tired, sure, I’m wrung out, but I can put words on the page. Irksome. Turquoise. Forget-me-not. Salubrious. Entwined. Fish finger. They’re all words. Easy.

Here’s the blog. I come here and open my brain and let the words inside spill onto the page. Some days they form into miniature essays or self-help guides or stories. Sometimes they fizzle and squelch limply into pools of nothing.

And what you have to do is love it all. Just love it all. Enjoy the process itself of manifesting your lifeforce into scratchy marks on a screen. Say yes to every word. I’m already good at the editing side of things, I know I can concentrate for long periods on perfecting something that already exists - it’s the creation side that can make me feel stunted and frustrated, that opens me up to self-criticism and depression slinking in.

Well not today, suckers. Just going to be happy writing nonsense, and wing it off with peace in my heart. Catacombs. Bonanza. Flim-flam. Yoghurt pot.

That’s the task, and I’ve succeeded once again, put words on the page. They may not be perfect, but they're perfectly cromulent - and that’s good enough for me.

I’m outtie. Peace.

...... 

Music: Blow Roland Blow, by Joanne Gordon and Roland Alphonso.