Perhaps I’ve used up my niceand sweet quota for the week because I seem to be walking around with an acrid taste in my mouth. I seem to be annoyed with everything. The inability of my students to go beyond themselves, to just try to scratch at the surface of a story or an essay —- my fear that this is my fault, that I have not done enough to make them care about literature or writing.
i feel like i’ve dried up. like the silence that i know i have allowed to settle into my bones is actually a decision to just stop caring.
i’ve always felt that silence was a kind of dignity, similar to the unnerving talent some people of saying something, without inflection, without emotion that can just cut through you. i wanted that kind of power. it was such a contrast from my puppy dog, jolly rolly polly, whiny brat personality where the machine gun method against a barn didn’t really leave me with anything, but questions if i’ve shown too much to people, made them see all that makes me funny haha and funny sad at the same time.
but this silence is the realization that i have built myself a safe and stuffy hole in hell. my obsession to be right has made me unable to be.
always touting that i could read people, but in the end, realizing that i had no edge over the next insensitive shmuck has made me stop looking. i have no desire to read between the lines because i don’t like the icy cold needles of rejection i felt when i did and got it wrong.
and how can you love literature if you refuse to see the fire behind the words?
how do you live if you don’t allow for messy things to happen? i’m not tired. i have not expended any emotion for the past couple of weeks.