Frustration towards an inability to find a suitable writing environment

I think I need an intervention. This post is ridiculous.

Sometimes I can’t even form a coherent sentence. But badly wish to.*

Following a rather messy attempt to write on my lunch-hour, I found this in my notebook. Word-for-word, without editing, this is what my (literally out to lunch) brain ranted about:

Lost in mess of abstract thought, struggling to get the words on the page, choking through the fog of random abstraction, flashes of brilliance, avoiding the minefield of cliche, all while dancing around the true human universal answer – digging into the pathos of sheer existence – a true moment of creative genius glimpsed through the foggy  lens of a chipped tea cup, a pen low on ink, blank white pages stained with coffee in the corners and a quiet desk with only minor auditory distractions – a true moment of creative genius! Edging closer closer! Like running wildly through a hedge maze – just after this turn! No, this one! No! Keep going! Keep going! almost there ———-




Fuck. What? A cell phone. A creaking door? The wrong sandwich in the bag. “Genius” lost to mediocrity.

NOTE: Nothing I’ve ever written can be considered “genius,” but when you’re trying desperately to get something down before you lose the thought and then indeed lose the thought, it feels like whatever you’ve lost must have been the Best Thing Ever Thought.

I felt I needed to share this frustration, if anything, to make myself realise the utter absurdity of it all.


*Oh, Christ-on-a-cracker, nothing makes sense anymore.

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