Guess which one has the most internalized manic energy?

When I was a kid I really, really wanted to write books.

I’d run downstairs and grab a fistful of printer paper, fold it in half, staple it on the ends, and voilá — a book. Never mind the fact that I never finished a single book, out of probably millions that I stapled together like a secretary on crack cocaine. It was just like, whatever. The fun part was when I got an idea for a book and ran downstairs thinking about it. The fun kind of ended when I was on the third page wondering who the fuck was gonna do my illustrations (me, obviously, but with what free time? I had a whole book to write). And as I get older and older, I look at books and I’m kind of like, “nahhhh….”

Adulthood is just a slow recognition of the fact that you’re not gonna get everything done, like, ever. It’s not the worst thing in the world. To an extent, it can be freeing to not feel like you have all this shit to accomplish in so little time. But on the other hand, it’s a little sad. Losing my childhood dreams kind of feels like I’m letting go of a part of my identity.

Nowadays I’m proud of myself if I log on to Flickr at some point in the week. What the fuck is that? It’s so dumb, it feels pointless. But then there’s this conflicting feeling, because I totally get all this appreciation and visual stimulation from being on photo-sharing sites. So I’ll feel inspired for a hot minute, and then I wonder how I can apply it to my life, and it kinda fades. It’s like a mosquito bite.

I’ve been dealing with a lot of shit lately and that’s sort of dampened my overall spirit, but in another way, it’s opened me up to a really beautiful side of existence which is pain for actual pain’s sake, not just the pain of wondering what you’re doing in your life and what mistakes you made when you were a super depressed college student.

As much as this hurts, in a way I’m really grateful for it. It feels a little like an anchor, pulling me down in the center but with a force that feels too strong to be self-imposed. I can’t really explain it but anyone with depression could probably relate to the feeling of actually savoring negative external experiences, because at least you can actually justify those and get sympathy for them.

Anyway, yeah, I don’t think I want to write a book, and adulthood is confusing. Hopefully my prefrontal cortex is more fully developed by the time I sit down to write another post here.

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