“Hope!?” X spluttered, anger and confusion mingled. “Don’t tell me about hope!”

Y sighed, shaking his head. “I know, I know. But you know I can’t help but try.” X gritted his teeth and walked away without a word.

Shit. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I just finished reading The Future of Spacetime (which is basically a book put together by theoretical physicists in honor of Kip Thorne’s 60th birthday.) Interestingly, the last essay was by Alan Lightman, a physicists and a science-fiction writer.

It reminded me once again of the only good reason to write: because you have to.

Not in the sense that, if you didn’t write, you wouldn’t get paid and you’d starve to death. More in the sense that if they broke your hands so that you couldn’t hold a pen or use a keyboard (and assuming you didn’t have anyone to transcribe whatever you said, and that you weren’t proficient with writing with your feet) then you would die, or at least probably go insane.

There was a time when I would have answered affirmatively immediately. I recognize that the reason why I type out this gibberish (not just this blog, but everything creative I’ve ever written in general) is because I’ve needed to. I don’t think I would’ve died (the lack of writing itself wouldn’t have been the proximal cause, legally speaking), but I surely would’ve gone insane. Or at least gotten even more depressed than baseline. Perhaps suicidally so.

I guess there is a sick truth to it, then. It’s easiest to write when I’m abjectly miserable. This low-level, mild, chronic misery just doesn’t cut it in terms of inspiration.

But, I gotta tell you, major depressive disorder is no fun at all. As I’ve written before, going through life thinking that you suck and that it’s all your fault is incompatible with life.

There’s gotta be a better way to be inspired than becoming suicidally depressed. Not that it isn’t easy to become suicidally depressed considering the kind of world we live in.

Bleh. I have serious problems that not even the most potent psychotropic drugs can obviate, I guess.

It’s times like these when I have a lot of shit to take care of but I really don’t want to deal with it that my brain turns toward things I have absolutely no need to think about. (Holy fuck, that was convoluted.)

It’s really fucked up, honestly. The way I procrastinate is by thinking deep, depressing thoughts.

For example: Because I have all these stupid little exasperating tasks that I need to get done before I flee this City, things that I really, really, really don’t want to deal with right now, I have been thinking about my social life. Or more precisely, the lack thereof.

Now, B and B and N and most everyone I’ve ever talked to about this will tell me that a lot of it is my fault. Obviously I’m not gonna be going out on any dates if I don’t ask anyone out.

The more rational side of me (which makes its appearance every now and then, though never often enough to actually make a difference) recognizes that this is simply a self-confidence issue.

Now, I have, at worst, a pretty inane personality. (Note that’s inane, not insane, although I’ll admit, I’ve been accused of the latter a lot.) Nothing boldly offensive, and sometimes even perhaps a little mildly interesting.

But then you all know what “nice personality” really means.

Now, again, the rational side of me notes that this really doesn’t make a difference. I mean, seriously, who doesn’t know an extraordinarily ugly guy who somehow gets all the chicks? I’ve seen plenty of attractive women out with guys magnitudes of order less attractive than I am.

In theory, as a straight male, looks are not that high on the list of requisite characteristics.

Except in its fatal intersection with self-confidence.

Well.

So I got that all worked out. Not that it makes a difference in anything. In any case, I have all these GODDAMNED tasks that require completion before I get fuck up out of this City, so you know that I’m going to revisiting this theme ad nauseam until I’m done.