Your morning scramble special with a side of instability
I'm feeling like I just submitted to a big fiction contest last night and re-read the whole thing this morning and decided: wow, I suck at this craft.
I'm feeling like I revealed too much about myself in a ficitonal piece I now am slightly hoping won't grace a website's front page.
Why doesn't my writing make any sense, even to me?
I'm feeling like I just had a conversation with someone and blacked out mid-way through what I was saying; later I will piece together what I said and wonder that anyone can make sense of anything I say at all, especially with my slurred, mumbled speech.
I'm feeling like I write too much poetry and then read other people's entries and get a sinking feeling that my emotions are not expressed the way I want them to be, or worse: I don't feel complexity in emotion. I'm feeling like maybe what I feel isn't intense enough for this craft. It's an art form I am inches away from and am being told by the museum security guard to back away, as I am going to ruin it with my breathing. My art was considered and then placed on hold indefinitely in the crypt of a dusty basement.
I'm feeling like I need to hone in on one emotion and stick to it. I can't bounce around from thought to thought like a raquet ball. I need stability in my mind. I'm feeling like I do child's pose over and over in my yoga practice to get rid of a pounding headache I can't seem to shake; staring at a computer screen for eight straight hours a day and squinting to write "Sincerely, ____" at the end of a simple thank-you email.
I'm feeling like there are phone calls I need to make that make me shake at the prospect of making them, and I am putting friendships and family relationships indefinitely on hold, like a phone operator is telling me: tomorrow, you can do it tomorrow. I'm feeling like my anxiety will destroy me.
I'm feeling like the list of potential titles I make to my future stories and poems are exceptionally deep, and then I blank when I need to title something I've written. I'm feeling like, what did I just write? A scramble special with a side of instability and self-pity.
I'm feeling like maybe someday all the pieces will fall into place; I will be living in my little home somewhere with my dog and feel at peace, having written some Magnum Opus that will change the way people think about the world and themselves.
I'm feeling like I want my writing to become a museum piece, dusted off from the shoddy basement archives and brought back to life, having made sense the whole time.