More Essaying

I hate the freedom of a blank page. Too scary, too empty, too full of limitless possibility. I don't think I've ever begun any serious essay/paper with confidence. And I don't think I've ever finished one with pride, either. 

But for some reason, I feel none of that in this Spacehey text box. In theory, it's the exact same thing, and I'm a damn nonsensical fool for thinking otherwise. But I don't think I've ever had any fun being sensical before. And in this sense, the Spacehey text box is comforting. We share a history. A strange niche world between the scholarly obligations of Microsoft Word, and the retreat of an unblocked social media site during school hours.

Nowadays, Spacehey is blocked, and I'm writing this off the clock. But that comfort persists. I've never felt compelled to write at my writing desk. Only during the most inconvenient times does the urge arise; Minutes before dinner is served at the desk; hours before dawn sprawled on my rug in the diary; and once an entire day spent in the bathroom over letters and coffee, all because the moment was right. And writing this now, I feel the same escape I felt during another endless lecture in AP Bio, secluded in the back of the room rattling off about my dreams of chemistry, or an especially dark day tucked in a closet, obsessing over death and suicide. 

How lucky I think I'd be to find a similar space to work on musical ideas, or art, or any other creative talent that takes far more sweat and blood than divine inspiration. Because the truth is, is my life is an endless stream of unfinished ideas. If I could finish the things I start, oh imagine where I'd be! My room would be lush with palms and ivy, furnished in oak and velvet! My garden would be a dewy forest retreat bustling with ferns and moss. My coffee would be darker, my wine would be richer, my days would be brighter and by God life would certainly be better! 

So I hate writing. It's like nothing else. You make a mistake in math, so you trace your steps until you see where your logic failed you. If you make a mistake cooking, you adjust your recipe and persevere. But there are no mistakes in art, and especially not in writing. There is simply good writing and bad writing. And the only remedy for bad writing is simply to write more of it. 

So I'll keep writing. Keep working. Keep DOING. But never for the future. The day I look back on my work with pride, I'll know I'm finished.