Things always become something else.
There is no real sense of direction with this collection of writings I started last month. Like jumping in a car and going. Where? Whichever way the car is facing.
For years I've hid behind the excuse that there is too much noise out there. So much great art being lost in a sea of half-baked opinions. Too many people and corporations trying to steal your attention. Too much of everything.
However, my AI therapist asked if I should change the framing. What if all this noise is actually a symptom of creative liberation? What if it is something to be celebrated?
So here I am, adding to the cacophony.
What is it that I have to add?
A handful of words resulting from 3.5 weeks of procrastination and denial. Hours spent letting hate into my heart. Devouring the unhinged "truths" from our dear leader. Imagining political arguments with relatives and in-laws. Consuming news, article after article, about the most recent outrage before the previous one was even processed. Seeking out this gloom, hoarding trash in hopes that I can one day turn it into something, ANYTHING, useful, instead of cluttering an already cluttered mind.
You could say this is a glimpse of a human psyche, psyched out. Psyched out by publishing something that is not polished. Psyched out by AI and what it means to be a fledgling writer nowadays. And psyched out by the road our country and culture is heading down.
I lost the plot this month. And I do not plan on letting it happen next month. Instead of hate, paranoia, fear—I am going to let love and curiosity guide my writing, reading and thinking. Agency is the most precious resource we have in an economy that is driven to steal our attention.
This is noise, sure. But where else would signal come from?