Sad, but True

I didn't really feel like doing the shopping Sunday. I was not overly anxious, I just didn't feel like doing it. I did it anyway, but I needed some motivation. I was able to get myself into the frame of mind where things seem more fresh. It's a place where good things might happen and great things are not entirely out of the question. This is the place I inhabit when I write fiction. It was easy to go there because it has been tugging at me anyway for the better part of a week. No, I didn't write while I was there, but the pull still exists. Monday was humdrum and icky and nights can get quite bad, but it's nice to know that the space is still mine. I might need to use it to write. I might even do it at night. I don't think it would be a good distraction, especially given the unconscious tendency toward accurate metaphor that is inherent in it for me, but it is an option that could take the place of one of the things I sometimes do at night when my problems won't leave me alone. Sometimes I go in search of answers on those nights. Much of what I find is incredibly nauseating. I might vomit if I read one more platitudinous pile of shit about spiritual growth, letting go, or any other sickeningly effusive load of non-reality. My fucking fiction is more real than that meaningless tripe. At least good fiction has more than one shallow layer when it's written well. It's rich but not falsely expansive and it can fully encompass more than one view of the scenery without the cop-out of the rose colored glasses on which people seem so reliant. Go figure, eh? If they ditch the rose colored glasses, they might have to actually get off their asses and do something real. Unthinkable! So they philosophize away their reality with 'inspiring writings' instead. Such giant truckloads of bullshit are just not inspiring to me. They can't even inspire me to write the truly profound comment that springs to mind when I read. (That comment would be, "Eat me.") It isn't even fun anymore to ask the hard questions and watch the writer either freak out or rush in to obfuscate in an attempt to hold on to his or her fantasy. I'm tired of reading air, so I'm simply not going to bother going in search of answers when that often just pisses me off by landing me in some strange writer's odoriferous pile of manure. I think I have found all of the opinions out there that concern my situation. I'm familiar with the operative concepts and reality still seems like the most productive choice, it's just that I know the world is in sad shape when the majority of people are so profusely full of shit that the best place to get a glimpse of reality is in a work of fiction.