The Glass Needs a Refill

I'm compelled to write about writing. But I'm not completely committed to examining my opinions on the subject. Not at all. I'd prefer to gloss over it. I'd prefer to let it hang in my periphery, get drunk and let it all float away. However. It's common knowledge that you can't drink when you're on antibiotics. So I guess I'm stuck, firmly rooted in my sobriety.

I don't have much patience for my insecurities. Instead I turn them into jokes at my expense. If I write them down, I give them shape. I give them power. I'd rather keep the shades drawn. I'd rather you didn't know. So I'm conflicted.

This job I have is good for me. It's forcing me to think logically, but I'm not good at it. I know with patience I'll be good because I'm arrogant. It's just that I can't stand being bad at something. Well boo hoo. Let's opt out of reality for a clumsy metaphor.

In my mind's eye I'm at the bottom of a very big hill. It's slippery and sharp and as I try to scramble up the rocks, I cut my hands. Now I'm convinced I'll never make it. My hands and legs are bleeding, bruised, and it's started to rain. I've probably broken a rib. I panic. I stop. I consider giving up. I concoct elaborate fantasies about the helicopter that's sure to rescue me. Of course it doesn't come. Eventually the rain stops and I climb, slowly, deliberately. I make the "serious" face. Maybe I bite off the tip of my tongue on account of clenching so hard. I hum bad pop music to myself. When I reach the top, I'm incoherent and inconsolable. And I've got gangrene. I cut off my leg with a pen knife. Then I cauterize the wound with lava because I accidently climbed an active volcano. And it's erupting.

At least, that's what writing means to me.

A better question is: what possessed me to start climbing in the first place?