Depend.

A while ago I wrote “I’m Not Sad”, a short piece about my narrow writing ability in that it’s too heavily reliant on depression and existentialism as a creative source.

This piece hasn’t resonated with me since I wrote it

until now, that is.

 

My absence from writing has taken a noticeable toll, because I feel pent up with words but no reason to spew them out onto a white page.

So while my life has taken a turn for the better, it’s also facing long-lasting damage.

I fear that the longer I stay happy, and subsequently the longer I stay away from writing, the worse I become at it.

So I face a dilemma.

 

Do I reach for nirvana and live in ignorant bliss?

Or do I reach for the Nirvana playlist and wallow in sadness for the purpose of art?

 

(Not that I see my little soppy bits as art, but they’re the closest thing I have to producing something on that level.)

 

I find this entire scenario and subsequent piece of writing (how meta is too meta? writing about writing about writing? blog-ception?) especially humorous because by merely considering the options I have, I become increasingly upset, pushing me towards writing about it.

 

To paraphrase,

I’m bummed out about not being bummed out,

I can’t write because I’m too happy,

I depend too much on my depression,

and I hate myself for it.

 

Yeah, that about summarizes it.
Apologies in advance for any aneurysms you had while reading this.