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I was going to write about something, probably about saying goodbye or some seeping sentimental thing like that. But boy do I get selfconscious when I try to write about deep stuff. I sound like an inarticulate sap. Yeesh. How’s this?
“I said goodbye this week for what felt like the millionth time. Or maybe it’s because this one felt like a million goodbyes melted together and cast into one.”
I’m still perplexed by my hatred of my own writing. People tell me I’m good. I feel like I have things to communicate. I know I feel things and think things that good writers have felt before. Yet, I read this crap, right here, right now, in this space, and I want to erase it immediately. Sure, I can blame it on self loathing or something interesting like that. But even if I accept that, it still leaves me under-communicated and without anything creative to show for all my feelings and thoughts. And maybe that’s what irks me: for all these passions I feel and the dark places my soul wanders, I have very little creative to show for it. For all Morrissey’s sadness and disillusionment, he has his music. He’s telling people about the stuff that eats him up. We adore him. He can connect to us and the listeners can all sit around and say, “boy, that Morrissey, dark and clever.” I’m sure he derives great satisfaction from that. This stuff that churns in me (unbelongable), I have nothing much to show for it, save for the uncomfortable “this guy is getting a little too deep” phone conversations with my friends. I know deep down I’m an adequate writer, but a good thinker and great lover. If I was great writer, good thinker and an adequate lover, I bet you I could make art. But my mix of acid and sweet has left me as a directionless and disenfranchised 30-minute conversationalist.
For tonight, I’m the unsatified. The un-expressed. The un-quenchable. The unknown.
Enjoy a uncomfortably weird Morrissey photo. (He’s laying with his Oscar Wilde collection).
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