Grind

9:07

Is writing so often the problem or the solution (yes to both)?  Should I just quit now, 20 seconds in, and find something on Netflix to watch (since no book seems to satisfy me)?  And, the scary question: why, since I found out a week ago that I might actually get a grant that might actually allow me to keep my job, why have I felt worse not better?

I know the answer, and I’ve been writing about nothing else for the week.  The easing of the existential threat opened space for the feelings I’ve held off for three months.  Knowing that doesn’t make it easier.  It scares me more.  What if nothing is enough? What if it will take so very much more to make me feel better, and what if that very much more never ever comes?

Earlier today, I felt an odd sort of congratulations to myself.  I’m in a rough place, but I believed that I was not anxious about being in the rough place.  I thought I was settling in with a lot of wisdom, and not draining even more energy by fighting my feelings.  But it’s hard to maintain that wisdom for long.  Now I want an out, again, and fast, and am worried because the last one vanished like a sugar high.

Is there anything left to say?  How does anyone describe a grind, which is the absence of vividness (vividity?  I wish that were a word) and freshness, in a way that is vivid and fresh?  It’s not bad prose, it’s the emotional equivalent of onomatopoeia. Having nothing to say is a sign of authenticity.

Meh.

9;19