MyFucking Feelings

The not so subtle art of sitting with yourself

I just turned in the second draft of my third book, finally coming out of my writing hole and had a revelation. Because I felt down last night and didn’t know why. Something I feel often. I understand artists and comedians, truly, people who can moonwalk in public while drowning behind closed doors. I have that. I don’t know what it is. But I have it as well. I don’t think many know. It comes after I stop.

My mornings are always filled with hope. That may be why I get up at 5:30am. It’s me climbing out of that slippery well. Nights are hard for me. I don’t know why. I feel dread and hopelessness, and wonder if there is a point to all this. It’s all temporary anyway. Generally, if I’m not busy and moving in life, conceiving ideas and being “productive”, I sink. Pretty fast. And I wonder if that’s why my dad worked so much. That was my big revelation. He was always either living in the clouds or thought the sky was falling. There was no middle. He was happy and light and silly, like nothing bothered him, or afraid and miserable, like the world was trying to trap him. He was dancing or running. Dancing or running. I am the same. I’m not sure how much of that is nurture and how much of that is nature. How much of that is addiction wiring and how much of that is conditioning. How much of that is truth and how…