Every single time I get started on a writing streak it seems the ideas will endlessly pour onto the pages. Almost as if I could sit by Lake Michigan with a cool breeze and just drift… I can hear the waves crashing. Feel the warmth of the sun. Echos of seagulls and laughing children on the beach. There I am fueled by my surroundings to just let everything spill outward into a marvelous literary masterpiece.
Not every masterpiece is Mozart, so just bare with me here. *CougH* anyway, as I was saying.
Instead my mind become so overwhelmed an irritated ball of pissed off frustration forces vomit and venom to spew forth in a manic rage. People start calling me “preachy,” argumentative, and, well, just downright mean-spirited. I retreat to a dark corner of solitude and stew. From that point forward everything written is junk. It’s like having the opposite of writer’s block. I become incapable of holding together a coherent thought.
I become less capable of holding a coherent thought?
To many things force themselves to the front causing a jumbled pile of goo. Then it’s time to quit and move on to something completely different. However that’s not how this works. There are too many projects I want finished. To many others ready to get started.
And yet yesterday was the first time I cleaned my room since before I was married. When was that? Before my cousin was married? 2008? 6 years ago. Last time I cleaned my room was six years ago. I was home for less than half of that, and I’m sure my Ex-Wife may have…
Today a friend posted on Facebook “I try to keep a lot of things on my plate so I never go hungry.” Never thought of put it that way, but I guess it’s a fair way to put it. Except I don’t feel like I’m trying to keep a lot of things on the plate. I want to be done. Let’s finish the damn meal already. Some bastard keeps filling the plate with more.
Life keeps piling it on.
Things get thrown onto the back burner, people get me sidetracked, exhaustion forces a numbness towards everyone and everything, it’s just too much. So I stuff my face trying to get it all down in gulps, hoping that maybe, just maybe if I can see the bottom of the plate I can find some peace free from guilt knowing that I have shit to do.
My Tummy hurts. One second. I… I don’t feel so good.
Ah, that’s gross. I just threw-up on the plate. Fucking Christ. Now it all has to be done over again. Only this time it’s messier, and disgusting, miserable. The only thing worse than having too much on your plate is having it come back as left overs.
It never tastes as good going down the second time.
Can’t I feel the warmth of the sun. Smell fresh air of the sea. Scratch that, I take it back. That’s not what I want at all. I remember what made all those things worth while. Having her next to me, just sitting, enjoying the company. Sharing the calm together. That ever so subtle aroma of musk and perfume from the night before mixed with the radiance of a lazy afternoon.
Where was I? Lost daydreaming for a second?
It’s always easier to manage a full plate with people around to support you. People are more than willing to share some of the load as long as they are not doing it alone. Yet here is the dilemma faced. There was a point where I was managing over two full lives, but one can only do so on the backs of others kindness. While I would never ask someone to do anything I wouldn’t do myself or I believed them incapable of doing it often caused massive issues because I expected them to do it. I was never really asking. And often I would scare the piss out of people because if I said “I need you to do this” I actually wanted it done right and thought they were capable of succeeding.
A shocking realization to some.
It wasn’t until a good friend brought this to my attention that I began to at least try to be conscious of it. Tone it down, scale back to more of a normal pace. An even tempo. Sometimes I look back and wonder how I used to get so much done. Maybe I had pushed people a bit to do it; the amazing thing, and to this day I don’t understand why, is they did. I can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s that unnatural human feeling of knowing you disappointed someone that coerced them. People have done a lot of crazy things just so they are not a disappointment.
That’s all done with now. Those times are gone.
Now the focus is more of what I can do not on what “we” can do. There are some things that others just can’t help with. Like deciphering the thoughts leaking out my head. Which is awful. It makes myself the only scapegoat in the field. While I’ve put several other of life’s thingamabobs in order there hasn’t been time to sit down and do even the simplest of new writing.
This is just a random rant spit out because it felt better than focusing on the migraine forming on the left side of my skull.
*SigH* I do need to remember that when my plate is full people are willing to help out so I can take care of what’s important. They just are a bit less willing if it’s finger fucked the first time around with a cleanup on aisle three…