Well, for the past hour, I just realized I’ve been trying write a post about the couch. Which normally would’ve been fine, but every sentence I wrote, I bet I erased. I just couldn’t write anything ‘good,’ but now I realized that I was just pushing myself. I bet it was good, but I just erased it. And either way, it is my own writing. So, after a little while, I stopped bothering with that, because I knew I was getting nowhere. I exited out of the browser, and went on Photoshop to draw a picture of a couch. But, yet again, the same thing happened. Whenever, and whatever I drew I thought was just a piece of trash. Though I didn’t even realize what I was doing until I had drawn the same thing enough to have a picture of a couch imprinted on my brain for the rest of my life. Then, I kind of just gave up.
Now, I’m thinking about how bad that actually was. Because I looked at the saved picture, and I felt like it was just fine. It felt like having a person like over me, telling me exactly what I’m doing wrong. That turned instantly in to a self-crushing sense of defeat. I really didn’t feel well enough to write, but I really wanted to write. So I just forced myself to, no matter how against it the real me was. I drew my picture of the couch, then erased it. I wrote a paragraph of my story, then erased it. It was impossible not to, because I believed I could do much better.
But, I guess that is why I was annoyed with myself. There is nothing else on my mind right now than this, so I guess that was the only thing I could write about. The couch will have to wait. But, when I write my couch post, I won’t erase it as much. Wait, that final sentence didn’t sound as meaningful and touching as I had hoped.