the joy of being wrong.
I'm tired of my laziness, my vacillating between thinking of ideas and procrastinating their execution, and my inability to create. So I'm creating this essay on the thing I'm fearful of most: proving I suck at writing. It's the only way I'm going to get myself to write. It's from all those angsty journal entries we kept as teenagers that learned what we liked and disliked about ourselves, having been our own therapists as we indulged our narcissism, our fascination and disgust with ourselves, how we interact with other people and we toyed with our God-given ability to express it. That's what I'm trying to do now. To the best of my ability and the mitigation of my inability, I am trying to let God, my humanity, the beauty of the Muse move through my fingers as I type, trying to capture some surreal, ineffable feeling I feel as I write. This is my act of rebellion against my own psyche, the thing within my head that denies my efficacy.
Fear is that thing. It will destroy you in a way that life isn't worth living; it burns hope; it destroys love; it cheapens joy; it enables neurosis; it prevents God from moving through you; it stops the wonderful act of creating in its tracks. 'Because this is just my ego on overdrive screaming out into the abyss that my life is important and I have something to say.' But my life is important and I do have something worth saying. I have the authority to write stories and to change people's lives. It's a struggle to put that to words without feeling delusional, but how much better it is to struggle than to shrink at the adversity of telling the truth; the most beautiful thing to do is to fight yourself, beat back that fear and to create in spite of it. Then what even more wonderful things you can make, having this strange, awesome misery to talk about, to create paintings, photographs or sentimental blog posts to capture its awful majesty in our lives. Whatever fear in my life that prevents me from expressing is a denial of self and a denial of God. We're all seekers, set on earth to create purpose and meaning. Feel confused? Feel lost? Beaten, betrayed, broken? Good. Turn your pain into joy and your agony into art. Don't isolate. Come back. Wake up to what you have. Live untethered from apprehension.
Failure is a wonder of life. Misery is a godsend. That we Americans get to suffer in the existential, Nietzschian way that we do, that I get to be imperfect and confess and repent and be imperfect some more, that I am allowed to be a walking contradiction and an incomplete hypocrite, that I get to live and love and hate for potentially sixty more years and then die is true poetry. Being human is indescribable in its richness, its fullness.
I am a writer. I know this. I deny this. I'm unsure what to write. And that's good. It's a perpetual struggle I cannot wait to overcome and a triumph I cannot wait to share time and time again. I tried my hand in song-writing; I'm bad at that; rather, I wasn't able to make the truest art, the art that I wanted to make and could be proud of. So now I'm looking for an avenue for my story-telling. I am a man without a home. Now I'm searching, and must write until I find the path to create the truest art I can. I have a deep and urgent need to use my God-given ability to tell stories, and I'm trying hard to find my home in this bat-shit insane world where I have the incredible power to create.
So this is my spirituality. I am a bizarre shaman, channeling a primordial power; in the words of the Greeks of old, to be inspired is to allow God to breathe into you. Such is my duty, and I will with ever-changing moods of excitement and solemnness perform this rite, however possible. Because I am a writer, and this is an essay I wrote to prove I suck.