The title of this entry comes from "Wish List," a Jets to Brazil song that Sara used to play in the car often. I've been thinking of that particular lyric a lot, because it seems increasingly pertinent in the face of my staggering sense of self-defeat.
So goddamned often it feels like I'm going nowhere, that where I am might as well be nowhere, and that everywhere I've ever been is becoming nowhere with each passing day. I know this probably isn't how things truly are, but man, sometimes it's tough convincing myself otherwise. I'm denied, due to circumstances and doubt, many of the things in life that would make for a mentally and spiritually even-keeled D.A. Smith, but there is one thing that nobody/nothing can take away from me- or give to me- and that is writing.
Writing is hope, exorcism, the slow strangling with my own hands of despair. Writing is fooling myself and others and rejoicing. Writing is the only beauty I can offer the world, no matter how ugly or shabby or poorly punctuated or badly plotted or tritely characterized it may be. Writing is, like Jets to Brazil said, my way out of this black hole, and while I don't bet on finding anything but a grey void once I'm out of it, there's only one way to find out, and by the Logos, I'm going to find out, and revel in every moment of the process.
"If ever I should seem to take for granted
this lovely life that I have been handed
darling don't just stand there, come knock me around"
It's me and my writing against me and everything else. I'd worry about the outcome if I didn't believe that you can't beat a man who doesn't care.
"They took my words and wrote them off as passing
It pissed me off enough to keep me writing"
Let's do this.
No comments:
Post a Comment