Not to beat myself up, but I’m full of shit. No, really, I am. I have so many things inside me that I want to get out but I don’t know how to say them, so they turn to shit. I want to cut them out of me and show you, but there’s something stopping me. It’s like I’m stewing inside, and finally the water’s too hot for me to put my hand in. I probably wouldn’t call it writer’s block, because I can write perfectly fine. I can put words on paper and convince people they’re sincere, but I can’t shake the feeling that everything I do is hollow. I know it’s my header and I sometimes laugh it off, but I really do think there’s something wrong with me.
This isn’t a new sensation for me. I’ve felt this way for a while. Maybe not forever, but long enough that it’s been able to eat at my soul. What does that word mean, soul? How do I know I have one? And if it turns out I don’t, then how do I get one? I don’t know anymore. I don’t even know if it matters.
I kinda want to quit this blog because I can’t take myself seriously anymore–let alone make any of you take me seriously–but I’m afraid that if I do quit, I’ll never write again. This blog is simultaneously the only thing keeping me sane and also dragging me to hell. It’s like being on a sinking ship–you can jump in the water and let the sharks get you right away, or you can wait for the water to trap you and go like that. There’s only one final solution, but two means to reach it. I suppose that drowning is more dignified. I’ll probably do that. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.