I am forcing myself to write something. At this point, “something” is as definite as I can be, because “something” really translates to “anything.” Write anything. Just write, as long as it’s something, as long as it’s anything, as long as it’s words strung together.
This is an attempt to assuage my conscience, my sense of consciousness.
I have been unemployed for three solid months. It has been like swimming in ice water, slow and prickly and cumbersome, moving as though walking on the moon, unbelieving of the events surrounding me even as they introduce themselves to me. Hi, I’m Depression. Hi, I’m Angst. Hi, my name’s ANXIETY, and we’re going to be tight, I’m sure of it.
So this is a record, some kind of pact between myself and various other parts of myself, some kind of telephone line between the part of me that still cares, in its desperation making far flung attempts to reach the outside world. This is between me and the void of the internet, calling forth parts of myself and gluing them onto clean white screens, only because I do not want them lost to the void within myself. Unemployment is a bitch. Being a writer who can’t find work, not only writing, but answering phones, cashiering, cleaning, stocking and inventory–there are parts of myself that are fast becoming endangered, with the next stop being total extinction. This is my fight against that. After a phone call with my sister two days ago, she reminded me that I must write. She didn’t really say more than that, except that I “must,” a word she uses in earnest and I never really understand the true pull of. Must? Why “must” I? What force is acting on me, making me feel a sense of obligation to respond to this “must”?
But my sister is right. I must. If only to put my BA to good use.