well, i'm currently feeling a little out of it. everything seems a little dull. muted. it's as if existing has suddenly become exhausting. it feels like everything seems like a chore, even when i'm doing something i would've gained some enjoyment out of doing them. at the same time, i don't know whether this feeling is caused by my hormones seeing that my period is coming soon (the signs have been rather clear other than my rather shitty mood).
this feeling has been following me around like a personal raincloud, threatening to pour who knows what emotion or a thing i've been repressing for a time. when i attempt to write things just for the fun of it, i get so bloody critical of everything that i've written. something doesn't seem right and by the end of my critique, i wonder why the fuck did i even start writing again. like what is the point? i feel like my existential crisis moments are getting bigger as i point out the cracks that i see within myself. especially when it comes to writing. grades aside, the feedback has always been more important. sometimes, my words get jumbled up and my train of thought has digressed so badly that when it gets translated into an argument, it's basically a disaster. i thought my language is good enough. i thought i was better than the average person. but everything so far just points to the fact i'm still learning and the process is painful as fuck. i admire writers, poets, songwriters, journalists, critics – heck, i admire my friends whose words flow out so beautifully that i wonder why do i even bother. what made me think i was that special in the first place? the fear of mediocrity haunts me oh so greatly. it's totally aligned to my own perfectionistic ways. this sends me to an existential crisis because what the heck am i even doing when i can't even write well. writing has always been – as conceited as it sounds – my thing. it's part of my identity as a person and if i can't write, then what am i? then again, my journey to find myself started a decade ago and of course, as i approach to my 23rd birthday, i still don't have an answer for my 13-year-old self.
sometimes, maybe it's my 'destiny' to be a reader and not a writer. i would like to think i read widely but once again, this year is the year of illumination and reflection, maybe i'm not as well read as i thought i was. aside from my whinging, whenever i read or watch something that has a fantasy element in it, i would get so into it where i would rather be in that world than reality. this feeling was nothing new since i felt like that for quite a long time during my poly years. it's basically escapism at its finest. i would rather care about the problems of the characters than my own. then you just reading and reading until it ends. then there is gaping hole waiting to be filled with another story. it's a circle. is this a sign of loneliness? maybe.
i don't really have much left to say other than maybe my next post would be less drab. maybe.
- Gloria
Photo by Charlie Deets on Unsplash
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