The emotion I felt, upon receiving the email and URL that a professional article I wrote was published on a big league website, was emptiness. Is that an emotion? I didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment over getting closer to writing professionally. I didn’t feel starstruck. I didn’t feel better. I’m still in that same depressive rut. I’m happy it’s published, but no endorphins flooded my brain to congratulate me on a job well done.
I most enjoy the writing process.
Moving the cursor from the empty side of the page to the full side of the page with words that aren’t terrible is a feeling that helps me feel the most complete. Editing and publishing are necessary parts of this writing puzzle, but if I were left to my own devices with enough to sustain myself, like I’ve been in this apartment-mansion on now my third day without leaving, I would do at least some writing every day. They’d be more meandering pieces like this, exploring how the mind is our greatest enemy and how we must fight through the inner depression that our minds seek to overwhelm us with on a daily basis in order to do anything that could help us feel better – like eating food, drinking water, exercising, or going outside to do anything – but these pieces also don’t make any money in their current state. If I were more serious about making money through writing, I’d be doing different things, but I don’t know. I’m not a smart person. I see people become successful in doing things that I could do myself, but for some reason, my mind is just depressing my chances of achieving any of those successes on days like today. I know I need to reply back to this email, thanking the publisher, and telling him about the next article he can use if he wants, but all I really want to do right now is just go to sleep. I don’t care about my long-term success in these sorts of mindsets. I don’t care about tomorrow. I don’t care about doing anything to increase my overall health or improving my mindset. I don’t care about helping others, let alone myself, and all I feel like doing is just escaping. I’ve spent most of today chasing after escapist videos or videogames to play, and leaving all disappointed. Nothing will satiate this existential ennui. I am not destined to feel happy today. I will go to sleep, where, maybe I will dream of a scenario closely resembling my life at this moment but with enough changed variables where I can temporarily feel happy. That would be nice. I don’t want to feel like this right now. I have other writing projects I need to do, most of which actually could bring my professional and creative brands more recognition. I just barely have the energy to do anything other than complete this sentence and crawl back into bed.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll actually feel honored.
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Related: Other Sober Living entries.|
|Picture: Obscured screenshot.|
|Written On: April 9th [18 minutes, 5PM]|
|Last Edited: First draft; final draft for the Internet.|