I find that I still believe in dreams. I still have goals. I found myself browsing publishers this morning. When other people ask me why I'm not published, I say it's because I don't care. That's a lie. I do care. A lot. I also believe that, though my writing can be decent, it is not good enough. This morning I discovered Cosmos and Polis Press, and I swear to God they would be perfect.
But I am so thoroughly screwed up. Mentally I am lost. I don't know if I'm coming or going, if I'm here or there. And on top of that, my horrid cynical mind kills my dreams. It tells me to see logic, to see reason, to examine my work for what it is and realize that it is horrible. I wrote a dramatic short about a year ago. It deals with this concept of a cold mind killing all that which has meaning. You can read it here, on my fictionpress account, which is amusing to browse. I only post the bad and the weird there. Oh I don't even know what I am saying.
My conscious is a black hole.
I have been thinking about writing a lot lately. Even though I did not use my spring break to test drive writing, writing has occupied my thoughts. It calms me down when I freak out, which has happened increasingly frequently.
I find myself wondering if I could give everything else up--if I really could be a career writer. Could I find anything more satisfactory? I hardly know. Oh God, I don't know. I still know only that I cannot live like this. I am suffocating myself. I am living a life of slow and painful suicide. OH GOD, I need to get out of limbo: send me to Heaven or Hell, I no longer care which, just do it now please God.
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