Last week I dropped off a disposable camera to be developed and spent the majority of Thursday reloading my inbox, waiting for the email with the scans to come through. It was nice looking forward to a fresh set of photographs to play around with. I didn’t have any expectations of them though, mostly because I’m tired and somewhat reticent to be creative. I can’t imagine anything fruitful coming from my attempts.
I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write, which is hard for me to wrap my head around. I’m usually so good at banging out entries, and while I still keep a journal, writing in a blog is a different experience. I feel like a jammed typewriter. I keep hitting the keys but nothing comes out. Everything feels flat and dead. The anhedonia left in the wake of a depressive cycle is palpable.
I’m still forcing myself to do this though, getting my voice out and onto a page. I can’t even imagine how bad of a read this entry is. Back when I was smoking a lot of weed, I would still put together my weekly entry. Once sobriety kicked in, I went back to read what I wrote when I was perpetually high. It was pretty bad and sounded clunky. I feel like I’m in that spot right now, the bad writing spot. This whole entry is going to suck, I can feel it. It is what it is though, and I guess we’re all stuck dealing with it.
I had a positive experience during my massive depressive cycle, a glimmer of hope that I keep tucked in my sleeve. Rick Rubin said that when he has a question he goes to a book shelf, grabs a random book, opens to a random page, and reads what is on that page. He said that the universe, God, whatever spiritual energy you believe in, can find you this way1. I gave it a try while I was at the bookstore. I thought about my job search, pulled a random book and read the page it opened to. The book I chose turned out to be about the science of journaling. The page I landed on was describing the trajectory of an author who used journaling to win awards, build a lucrative writing career, and quit her corporate job. I get that this whole thing sucks, but it could also go somewhere too, ok?
So I guess I believe in myself more. I like that Jung stresses spending time in your depressive episodes. I even saw a Lionel Richie interview where he explained that prior to putting out new work, he would often experience intense lows. I keep trying to make sense of the peaks and valleys of my own, somewhat dilapidated, internal world. It’s very much its own beast though, and I’m not trying to restrain it.
a soft death 