Tuesday, May 8, 2012

"Open the pod bay doors, please, HAL."

Plain and simple, ever since I met Prozac and I started ingesting it I have lost my will to write. It's not that I've stopped thinking and being outraged, or even stopped being depressed and anxious, it's just that I feel I have nothing special to say.

It's hard when you think of yourself as a writer, mainly because it's how you make a living (although some would poo poo the idea of a technical writer calling themselves a writer), and then come to realize you've "lost it". What "it" is in this particular case I do not know.

Maybe it's the will and/or ability to drone on about things that don't really matter in this world. Maybe it's that thing that happens to all of us sometimes when we put fingers to keyboard and we turn out something simply genius. Maybe it's the self-reflection that inevitably comes from blogging about oneself.

All that seems to petty compared to some other things in this world...

Why do we choose not to eat the salad on the plate when we're at a restaurant when there are people who have nothing to eat? Why if most people only eat the steak and chips and leave the salad untouched is it even there on the plate in the first place? Wouldn't it be more honest to hike off to Africa, find a starving mother unable to feed her child and just slap her in the face? It's driving me insane how poorly we distribute resources and then sit back and wonder why people are angry. We think of ourselves as the noble and educated but we are the ones who continuously keep wasting resources for the sake of doing it.

It maddens me to think of how much stuff gets thrown out. We still run around and consume at an insane rate and we're conned into thinking that somehow buying more things will trade us out of a global financial crisis. All this while more and more jobs are going overseas.

The world makes no sense to me and I don't like it. Perhaps I'm better off being depressed and all wrapped up in me and my moods.

I'm just saying.

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