I Don't Like It One Bit!

So I've come to the conclusion that my writing has severely deteriorated over the last month or so. I'm not aware of the causes of this, but I simply don't enjoy my writing as much as I did before. It lacks the same character, the same enthusiasm, the same humor that it had back in the Golden Age of my blogging career. (When you do things for brief periods of time, you can talk about brief periods as ages and eras. More on that later.) Anyway, I've chosen to write a little about how much I dislike my writing right now.

I'm not funny. I do give it a little effort, but it just doesn't come to me as easily as it did before. This idea of not being able to be funny is depressing, which makes my writing even worse. It's a downward spiral, like if I were a pigeon and some delinquent kid threw a rock at me and broke my wing mid-flight and I started falling out of the sky. At this point I'm about to hit the ground. Or maybe I'm already on the ground, and the delinquent kid saw what happened and is trying to take care of me, but I'm freaked out because I'm a pigeon and pigeons are afraid of humans because of evolutionary traits to ensure survival, so I'm hopping away because pigeons don't really walk, and I'm trying to nurse my wing back to health but I don't have medical care because I'm a bird. Anyway it's a bad situation.

Metaphors are fun, but I don't really think that they're quite the same as what I started writing. If you go back to my other posts, towards the beginning, like "A Conversation," those posts were actually good, in my humble, totally non-biased opinion. I enjoyed writing them, and I mostly enjoy reading them. For the most part, I enjoy the ideas behind them. What I no longer enjoy is the ideas behind my newer posts. I think it's because I've been writing them in situations where I'm not just writing. I'm usually listening to a lecture, or trying to pass time, or waiting for something to happen. I'm not thinking about writing. It's a problem.

This post may turn out the same way. I'm not really doing anything else, but I'm also not fully devoted to writing this right now because it's pretty late at night and I kind of want to go to sleep. However, I started writing this and I feel like I should finish it because if I stop and leave it for tomorrow I think I'm going to lose my train of thought that I kind of have going right now and it will turn out even worse than if I finish it now.

I'm typing very poorly right now. You can't tell because I'm going back and fixing all my errors as I'm going, but I'm writing pretty slowly because I'm deleting every other word to fix it. It's like if I were trying to get somewhere, but each time I could only get halfway there, then I'd never actually get there, but for most intents and purposes I'll finish because it doesn't matter if I'm still half of a half of a half of a half of a half of a half of a half of a half of a half of the way away from being done because I'll be close enough that it doesn't matter anymore. That's like one five-hundred-twelfths away from being done. Totally did that math in my head. I'm smart like that. Kind of. Not really...

So I've lost something in the past month. I'm not really sure what it is. Maybe it's the dedication. Maybe it's the inspiration. Maybe it's the ability. Maybe it's topics. Maybe it isn't actually anything and I just don't like what I'm writing for some strange reason but I'm still writing just like I did before. Who knows? I don't think that I do, but it's very possible that I do, since I've come to accept that I don't know what reality is and I don't know who I am either, in some bizarre philosophical sense. 

Philosophy does that to you. It's kind of cool, but kind of annoying. Like before, I just accepted that I am myself; that I have a body and a life and I live and the world exists and all the people around me are real and the food I eat and the feelings I experience and the things I do are real, and that they have consequences and mass and stuff like that. All the normal things that we associate with life. Now, I have no idea what's real. I'm not sure if I exist, I'm not sure if I have a body if I do exist. I'm not sure that what I perceive is real, I'm not sure if what I'm actually doing what I think I'm doing.

I mean, for practicality's sake, I accept that I'm here, that I'm typing this, that I need to go to sleep, and eat and drink, go to school, talk to people, get out of the way of projectiles moving towards me in a fashion that could do my body physical harm, etc. It would be stupid for anyone to live his or her life going about his or her business as if he or she didn't actually exist and as if he or she had abilities like Neo in The Matrix. He or she would die. Rapidly.

I'm going to go to bed. I'm not sure if it's because I'm tired or because my writing is actually improving, but this post may be slightly better than my last few. I hope you liked it too. Actually, it really doesn't matter because I haven't totally accepted that you exist. So go share your opinion elsewhere, imaginary reader.