Letting IT Go

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No, not the scary clown IT, but the big pink elephant in the metaphorical room in-my-head IT: My anger. My Rage. My anxiety. My compulsive need to feel justice... in ANY form.

I feel like I get wronged and I cannot let go until I have been "righted", until I feel I have been vindicated in some way or another. I need to let this go, I read in a health journel that it can have a detremental effect on your bowels.

I need to write more. I wrote a few interesting poems the other day; interestingly enough, I felt as if I had almost channelled them from somebody else - they just dont seem like something I would write.
I wonder if that is possible? ... A Midsummer night's dream was apparantly based on a OBE/Dream but they had Opium availible over the counter in those days.

At least I wrote something eh? I feel the urge to add /Writted/ on the end there. heh.

Prolonging the Inevitable

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I havent written anything since I posted that letter to myself a few months ago. I have tried to motivate myself to do so, but my inner-Iago demands to know why I should even bother trying... I relent to his wishes. His criticism merely "You're not that good at writing anyway".

I read the "Writers" Magazine, and in it I found over-whelming amounts of information. Stories from people who are writing, the lenghs they went to to pursue their only passion in life. I do not share their experiences. At all.
To be honest, I didnt really think of writing anything until I turned 16. My imagineation took over and the world was a new place, full of inspiration and interesting things I personally believed I was the first to experience ever.

That was never the case though. In retrospect, it was foolish to make such assumptions. But I was very lost as a child; I dont use it as an excuse, but when most children wanted to be a Fireman, a Vet or even a Shop assistant - I didnt have a clue what I wanted to be. I couldnt see clearly enough in the future to know what I would be able to do.
I dont think I still do.

All I do know for sure is that since I stopped writing, my dreams have been going insane. And I mean INSANE (im a cat and people are selling my belongings). Since I have put the proverbial pen down for my aspiration, my mind had managed to imagine - in vivid detail - scenarios' that play out to a backdrop of creation.
But, alas, I am quick to note them as "Good Ideas" and then sweep them under the imaginary rug that Iago is holding up for me.

I should not have read that magazine (I protest) - some of the greatest writers in history started with just a good story. They didnt need creative english classes or amazingly broad knowledge of the english dictionary - they just needed a good story and the imagination to see it through.

I feel so lost - creatively speaking - yet over-whelmed with my surroundings that I cant fathom where my feet should fall first.

Help.

Self-Expression (A letter to Myself)

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I have to say it. I have to get this out because I have to read it back and accept it:

I have been working on a writing project and over the past three days I have been overcome with extraordinary self-doubt when it comes to my ability (or lack there-of) to complete this task.

Needless to say, I have buried myself in endless distractions to prevent myself from doing it. I had to force myself to go over how far I had gotten tonight and... I ending up passing the book over and doing something else instead. Just like always.

I am so fucking angry with myself for doing this. I cannot put down in words how much so I am. I am trying to rationalise my failure to continue this work but I (the real Me) refuses to believe my bullshit anymore.
I hear you all ask "Then why do it? If it is making you feel and act as negatively as this then why bother to persue it?" - it does seem fruitless. But if I stop at this project there where do I start again?

This extraordinary self-doubt I keep on stirring every-time I try is making me question if I should write - write ANYTHING - in the first place. And that idea frightens me. Utterly and completely.

If I didnt do this. If I didnt write... there would be nothing in this world that I can do. Nothing I can claim to have a skill at. Nothing I can give back to this world.

I can live my life quite contently with endless distraction after distraction until I am FORCED to change the way I live (And dont fucking kid yourself, that will happen one day, people dont live forever Michael!) OR I can take a stand now, cast off the less addictive distractions and try to accomplish something.

Please Michael, you need to try.

Please?