I find it difficult to have any optimism when sailing in a wooden ship on a sea of lava. The best possible scenario is for me to just throw a few cedar chips down, close my eyes, and take deep breaths. That, and perhaps sprinkle a little ground cinnamon and nutmeg into the mix?
I'm realizing that I'm at that point again where it's difficult to be creative. My inner hipster judge keeps telling me that everything I'm doing is garbage. Everything I'm about to write has already been said. My feelings are all invalid. When I have a thought, it's immediately countered with another thought. "I can't write this because if I think things through,..." It's that sort of thing. Yet I DESPERATELY need to be creative. The lack of it is killing me.
The blank page, my arch nemesis. Alluring and frightening.
On top of that, my environment makes it increasingly difficult to stay motivated. Yeah, yeah...excuses. Fuck it, it's goddamn true! I don't have the leisure time I once had, and even during those moments I'm extremely limited in what I can actually do. Of course, I must own up to a portion of it, since I set myself up this way. The dice were rolled. The slot machine lever was pulled. It's my fault that my emotional bank account now has a negative balance, because I didn't know when to stop. Wait...that's a lie. I knew, everyone knows. It was denial. I said, "Hey, why not? It's worth it!" All I chose to see around me were the lucky ones, and so "Why not me?"
Maybe it was the dealer. Maybe I didn't read that Power Poker book well enough.
Maybe I should have just folded to begin with.
Nothing good in life is ever free. There's always a catch. If it sounds too good to be true, trust your fucking instincts!
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