I was talking with a friend who is studying to be an engineer. He’s good with numbers and figures. Systematic in nature, and technical in skill. He asks me about my writing? In which I said, I hate it.
To hell with writing.
I can’t find the words to express my frustration, but life is being a thorough
bitch lately. Pardon my rudeness. It’s just that there is no word fit enough to convey the weight of frustration I feel.
Notice I said that it’s life that’s the problem, but really it’s my goddam writing. Because Life and writing, they’re both the same. At this point in my life, it’s starting to mean almost synonymously. Because this is want I want to do, this is what I want to do..
But is it really about what we want to do, or how good we do something?
Because, I’m tired of all these arrow-like critiques raining down on my morale. It’s exhausting. And I’m exhausted. The process is cruel. No pity for the young and inexperience.They say you learn from your mistakes, but no. You learn that it’s a mistake. The solution though, doesn’t come readily with learning the mistake. You work on it. You take a guess..
And then another mistake.
Literature is a godforsaken blessing at the same note, a goddam curse. Deciphering the meaning in between the lines is like, groping in the dark. Reading cover to cover is a pill that knocks you out. These literary art forms require good eyes, and sharp minds. But damn, I might as well close my eyes and shut my cranium down. Literature is a waste of time.
But this is where I want to be, in the middle of words.
Why can’t I be an engineer?
I’m starting to think that numbers make more sense than words.