The Undiscovered Country

Projectile Brain Vomit Imminent. Don Your Rain Gear.

Ever desire to drop all convention of conviviality, to care naught about what the damage will cause to those in your vicinity?

That be me right now. I honestly don't know where all this anger and frustration is coming from - what it's origin is.

All I know is it strains for relief.

I hesitate anyway and for the oddest of reasons: I will bore you.

One quality that makes readers return to a writer is the writer's ability to continually tittilate. That requires writing about an inexhaustible variety of subjects.

I'm a one-subject wonder (though it's far from wonderful) of late. I need to vent about it, but I don't want to.

It's like a boorish parent who talks about nothing but her "obviously genius" child who's not so genius. Soon people no longer listen and run far, far away when she comes near. They're tired of hearing the same stories over and over no matter how creatively retold.

I know I'm being oversensitive, but knowing that doesn't negate my feelings. It only worsens my mood because I fail to convince myself of the truth. It's easier to roll around in the muck of self-pity.

I want to explode in a tantrum and tear apart, burn and delete every word I've ever written. To move on to other, better things available in this world. To live a little instead of wishing I could through my words alone.

I won't, though. Once it's gone I can't retrieve it. Collecting dust on my computer or on a shelf is a viable option, because nothing requires I have to ever look at it again. At the same time I leave the door open just in case this is a mere mood - fleeting.