I must not art
Art is the mind-freer. Art is the little death that reigns total destruction on despair.
I will face my art.
I will allow it to pass through me.
And when it has gone, only depression will remain.
Thus goes the first verse of the Holy Depressant’s Litany Against Art.
I must not write.
Stories are achievements.
Writing is the admission that things aren’t as bad as they seem.
I will face my deadlines.
I will let the writing time pass through me.
And when time is gone, I will enjoy that whooshing sound it makes.
Thus goes the second verse. How do I know? Because I totally just made it up. Fascinating, yes?
Wait, I am being handed a note… thank you, Sven… hmm, yes, it seems that is actually not fascinating at all.
What IS fascinating is the lengths one goes to avoid doing one’s due diligence. That flash fiction story I started last weekend stares up at me like a sore with a nasty head, waiting to pop. It’ll hurt, but all I need to do is squeeze. (Or, failing that, lance it with a hot needle.)
(Uh, don’t do drugs, kids. No matter how many times the Beatles tell you that happiness is a warm gun.)
My brain is scattered today, ladies, gents, and otherwise. I attended a job fair. It was a lot more ‘fair’ than I anticipated, as in held on fairgrounds. We parked in soggy grass. It did not get much easier to mentally parse after this.
Thanks for bearing with me. I have a passel of job-search-related activities I must do, so hopefully more ‘real’ writing can take place this weekend and beyond. And drawing, yes, I promise!
Sometimes, being an adult is darned inconvenient. (Good thing you keep us writers around for keen insights such as this.)