woke up and hit the gym to swim. the steam room was intense. home now, took a nap and showered up. writing under the same fan i always write under. im experimenting with being honest, so here goes

i want to quit. i hate everything i write, i feel like a fucking fraud, i am disgusted with myself for obsessing about someday having someone read my stuff.

i dont even have my own voice. its just a cluster of attempts to write something that will make me real. to make me real. im not real.

its all dramatic and its all chaotic and its all stupid.

but, thats not why i am writing this.

i am writing this because I have come to understand something about my/the creative process, so here it is

if i hate what i write, than i need to ask why. the answer is simple, i hate what i write because i dont think it would make sense to other people. i am detatched from creativity because i am heavily fixated on the likability and relatability of my words. when i write chaotic stuff, it is really a victory because i know for a dam fact that my head is chaotic, so if i write something that makes no sense that must mean i have succeeded.

If i am ever to find solace or fulfillment or satisfaction from these thoughts scribbled on paper and then typed into this computer, i have to find a different metric for “success”

this is my new metric: did i sit down? did i write my thoughts? can i read it back and say “yes this is honest”?

if so, than i have succeeded. it doesnt make sense to others, it isnt elagent or poignant, but fuck all that

because its honest

and according to one of the many beloved creatives who chose to gargle a bullet,

“good writing is true writing”.

so fuck it

this ones true.