On Writing: Come, Let’s Make Sense Of The World
I realized at 18 what I should’ve known since I was 14: “Inspiration” is a lousy, unreliable, lazy teacher.
I realized at 18 what I should’ve known since I was 14: “Inspiration” is a lousy, unreliable, lazy teacher.
This is the coming together of a person done by quarter-life-crisis; this is the breaking down and the reinstalling of personhood. The larger personality creation is done repeatedly, every day – in forming habits, in saying the courageous “no,” in good riddance of outgrown platitudes.
We crave attention. Everyone. Yes, even that cool-huh-no-I-don’t-care high school player who cries four drinks down. It is there since childhood – this dire need of attention.
I could get a ton of shit done. I wore that veil as my badge of honor – to be bestowed with such busyness that does not allow for self-reflection, recharging, or rejuvenating.
Mmm, it is honeysugar, the beginnings. Every gesture so sweet, every crossed boundary charming, and every habit adorable. All of us possess a little bit of this sparkly honeymoon period nostalgia at the back of our palms.