Warning: I'm not kidding about self-centered prattling (though maybe with "finest" - hah). This is a real diary entry from two or three days ago, the result of procrastination. I tend to be boring and pretentious, so you have been forewarned.

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4:01 p.m.

I am such a horrid writer. Horrid. Yes, the British “horrid.” Christ, how much more snotty can I get? Not to say the British are stuck-up of course. No, I could never insult anyone else, much less an entire nationality. Any insult I could conceive of must only ever be directed at myself and myself alone. Because that’s safe. Not because it’s “nice” but because it’s safe. That way, I won’t incur human wrath or divine wrath or any wrath at all hopefully. I like my secure little bubble the way it is. Even if it has to pop, I like it.

This is crap. And I’m sidetracked.

Actually, my point really was just this: everything I write is pure, quintessential crap.

And I love throwing in fancy, snooty words like “quintessential” to butter the whole thing up and make it look impressive. In reality, that’s not writing. That’s…what, memorizing big words and trying to pass off as a brainiac? That’s artificial, the summation of my life. Writing is more. Writing is something I can’t begin to fathom. Writing is something I just can’t do. Shit.

Writing is unrestricted feeling. Writing is coherent, clever expression of the feeling.

The former I obsessively overflow with. The latter I fail at. I can’t for the life of me put my emotions down on paper, not well, not coherently, and certainly not cleverly.

I don’t have that innate skill, that abstract talent, to form images out of words, to construe the most brilliant and fantastic of mirages out of pure ink. My words are stilted, blunt, stumbling, and clumsy. My attempts always remain just attempts, the desperate vain grasps of an untalented amateur.

I feel like a constrained beast. Words yearn to pour from my heart, to spill from my lips and pen. Emotion surges through my being, searing my every nerve and vessel, coiling and lashing in my gut, craving to be free. I’m a vessel of pure undiluted feeling (that much I will take credit for), overflowing with powerful urges and uncontrollable impulses. Everything in me, all the chaos and turmoil boiling within, snaps like a beast restrained by a leash, but I lack the skill to seep it out onto paper. I pulse with a vibrancy nature has gifted me, but I can’t share it with the world.

It sucks.

Yet I keep struggling. I keep trying, failing in all my attempts and bloodied and bruised but continuing onwards. I throw myself at it again and again, lacking the sophistication to look at the problem with a calm head. I don’t care for the poise. I want IT. It’s my dream, my goal, my ultimate destination for life. I can’t fucking live without it somewhere in my life.

To be able to write. For that, I will keep on struggling, bloodied and crying.

Lord forgive me.

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JAIA.