Despite my disappointment in my own discipline at keeping my body in working order, in defiance of my depression’s insistence that doing deepens the darkness, I agreed to work with a couple of my heroes on Thursday. The minds behind some of my favorite internet videos will direct me to be a tough guy. I am trying to stay excited rather than nervous.

Every once in a while, I read back the things I write here for my own edification. I suppose that is the purpose of a journal and not only self-indulgence. What I note most, however, is how I only feel connected to the things I write that come from my self-loathing. The times when I make the effort to be positive make my ass twitch, to steal a phrase. They seem disingenuous. Perhaps I just have more practice in the dark.

I remember I once wrote a short piece called “Why I can’t be the bad guy,” for a writing class when I was attending Parkside. It was well-received for its poetic language, but no one really understood what I was driving at. I was in a position then to believe that I had more to learn, but that I had great potential as a writer, if only I would write.

I have more drive now than ever, commitment to purpose and awareness of the waste that most leisure-time activities create, but now I have none of the feeling of potential or interest that would have kept me in love with my own writing. I want to throw up when writers say their characters won’t talk to each other. I don’t like the way they give rational credence to the daemon. Maybe that is why my own soul’s code is so foreign to me. Arcane, even.