Schizoid

Guuuuuuuuhggh.

 

I don’t want to write things

Why not?

Why don’t I want to write things?

Yeah.

Uh. I don’t know. It might require that I sit here and be present and aware and think with my brain. You know. Hard things.

Instead of videos of baby hippos?

YES.

Can we write something and watch videos of baby hippos?

I guess. I don’t see why not.

Well, what’s all the fuss about then?

I don’t know. It still makes me grumpy and nervous. What if I can’t write anything good?

Who cares as long as you entertain yourself?

OH.

See?

But I could entertain myself watching videos of baby hippos.

You know that palls after a while. And then you feel stale and wound up and still unsatisfied. No amount of baby animal videos will ultimately be as satisfying as the act of creation.

Shit.

Do you want to feel good or to have value? What if the two sync up somewhere? What gives you value?

Well, according to some schools, my pink cheeks and healthy teeth. According to others, it is the cool and crystal brilliance of my soul. According to me, I guess it’s doing things that scare me, that then are transmuted into strength and joy.

Like hang gliding?

No.

Like bungee jumping?

Shut up.

Give me an example, then.

Like talking to a stranger. Like diligence in any one path in what, from this vantage point, looks like a long and twisty life. Like going into a new place where maybe everyone hates you cause maybe, that happens sometimes you know, and then they don’t hate you and maybe they even like you and not just because you have big boobs but because you also have some sparkling repartee and try to actually listen to their hurt while you’re talking to them.

So you want to save people with minimum effort. You want to be a magical fairy girl who whisks in through the saloon doors in a shower of pink sparkles, imbues some brief meaning, and vanishes into the night before you have to deal with fallout of people’s transformational epiphanies.

Yeah!

Okay. Let’s do that.

 

 

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Schizoid