(Long time no post, 'ey?)
I'm in no mood today to drag my words, so you're going to get it straight-up from me.
Writing is cathartic. That's mainly why I do it at all, it's the reason I first started, and it's probably the only thing about it that sustains me. It's probably one of the most proficient ways of releasing all of one's frustration, and annoyance, and anger at all the pointless bullshit in both the world and in one's life.
That being said, I'm not very good at using the outpouring of words that contain all of these sinister emotions—good on their own, as emotions go, but too much is much too much—into pieces of fiction that can actually be shown to the public. Or a public. Or make sense in any way whatsoever.
Which just leads to more frustration—surprise, surprise!
Because I was told one can totally do that. Use writing, that is. Use it to accomplish something, something productive, something more than just letting off some stream and releasing the "negative vibes".
Frankly, I feel a bit cheated. More so, however, I feel wildly disappointed; I'm not quite sure in what, or whom, though.
Am I the one that hasn't figured out how to use cathartic writing to my own advantage? Maybe I'm to blame. Is it my hair? I feel like it's my hair. (It usually is.) Maybe the emotions are all wrong. I just. Don't. Know. Hence the added frustration and the sense of purposelessness.
(So this was a rant after all. Only it was a very short one, I guess.)