I’m taking this thing way too seriously.

Just one year ago, I was creating content at a rate of four legitimate posts a week, with one long-form project every 2-3 weeks. What the fuck happened to my passion for creating shit? Why has it been so difficult for me to sit down and pound away at my keyboard?

I remember long nights of spewing mental diarrhea onto my computer screen and just hammering at it over and over, churning those shitty collections of words into something just a little bit less shitty.

I’d buff out redundant sentences, meaningless modifiers and rework my prose so that my shit would shine just enough to see my stupid face grinning back at me.

Back then, during my dark Tumblr era, I wasn’t trying to prove shit to anyone.

I was writing for myself so that I could read it the next day and pat myself on the back. I was devouring insane amounts of content, which in turn, would fuel the furnaces of my creative mind to forge my naive thoughts into state-of-the-art opinions.

Writing and creating videos was my meditation.

It was never an obligation or a task that I had to accomplish. I never cared about having an audience. In fact, I was abhorrently opposed to the idea putting myself out there because I hated how most social media platforms would instantaneously change the high personal value that I had about my work, into shitty metrics of likes and views.

Because the success of a post on social media is defined by such shitty metrics, there’s absolutely no incentive for anyone to routinely post anything of depth and quality. My Facebook feed has been reduced to 15 second long videos overlaid with clickbait meme-like captions.

But, this is where my problem lays.

Writing gets you into your head. Writing has this way of distilling all the unrelated floating thoughts in your head into fully formed ideas and concepts. For me, I could get so caught up in striving for higher quality thoughts and reaching into the depths of my mind, that I end up alienating myself away from the rest of the world.

It’s like coffee.

You can love coffee and know just enough to avoid the really bad shit and get something decent. You know, like how most people are.

Or, you can be the coffee asshole who insists that everyone else has shitty taste because they don’t understand that the water must be heated to exactly 210F, poured onto freshly roasted African beans that have been grounded to uniform consistency with a $200 conical burr grinder, with perfected pour-over technique that achieves the least amount of tannins with the complete saturation of grounds.

There’s a balance between being relatable and being a passionate asshole.

There’s nothing wrong with being passionate and yearning for perfection, so long as you can still make room to understand the ways of those who aren’t.

I’ve got to put a focus back on having fun with my writing.

What’s the use of doing it all the time if it isn’t fun and interesting?



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