Stuck?

Let’s see… do you ever get that feeling, where you really, really, really want to do something, but you just know you can’t? Or that it won’t turn out good? You’re so desperate, you want to cry in frustration, or hit something in anger. But you can’t do anything, you’re stuck at a stand still, you want to move, to get something done, but it just isn’t working. Then, you want to scream, lash out, spend all your time on it, someway, somehow just get it to work. You start getting annoyed by something that distracts you, whether it’s your family, friends, the rain, or maybe hunger, or the need to go to the washroom. Your friends are exasperated, your family annoyed, you’re unstable. Yet you’re still stuck. It’s all going nowhere, but you’re going down. You get depressed, sad, annoyed, grumpy, randomly angry. All you want is for something to go right for once. So you give up for the moment, work on your relationships with friends, classmates/co-workers, family… It’s still in your mind, it won’t give up. An idea floating around, attached to you like a parasite, you can’t seem to forget about it, or let it go. So then what? What do you do? How do you fix this? Do you just ignore it? Concentrate on it? Ask people about it? What is it that you need to do? How do you solve it, how can it be made right?

That’s the feeling that I get sometimes, an irresistible urge to do something, in most cases, write. Write what? A story. About what? Anything that comes to mind. The plot? Non-existent. Characters? Underdeveloped and plain. Originality? None. Ideas now? None. Interesting to others? No. Quality? Down the drain. All in all, it really sucks. But to me, it’s something I just… do. It’s not a question, do I like to write? Yes. To me, is it fun? Yes. Addictive? Yes. Yet, even if I love it, sometimes I just get so mad that I can do anything with it, I get so annoyed that it doesn’t get anywhere, that it doesn’t flow, that it just really bad. So, if that’s the case, why can’t I give it up? Is it like a drug to me? My own, personal supply of crack cocaine? Well, no, because it doesn’t always make me happy, cheer me up. In fact, I suppose it’s part of the reason why I’m so… bad-tempered, even when I’m on a run.

I can write cheesy lines, empty poems, spout romantic words, those are easy. What I can’t do, is create something of my own. Something of mine, something no one else knows about, something no one else can take away. Rants like this, I can do, it’s easy, I just take all my frustrations, annoyances, random ideas, and just jumble the all together. It doesn’t work like that for a story, for some reason. Even when I base it off of me,  I can’t even get it right, and it’s about what I’ve gone through, personally! I must really, really be bad. Actually, for the most part, anything I write I can critique, shoot down, reject. Though I must say, this is a really good exercise to get rid off that annoyed feeling.