The Writer Is Burnt Out – Mad Chaos: February 20, 2001

As Milton would say, and the writer, until today, and throughout this whole ordeal would dispute, “neither envy nor gall hath entered me upon this controversy,” which is, in being, my memoirs and their intemperate sway.  

How writing is now more loathed than loved a practice, and its punctuality, amongst this controversy, from steadiness forsaken.  These eyes as well as these hands, this fond beating heart, and main my poignant wit do well deal with defeat, tonight and in these eight past and gone unwritten.  

As the writer has resigned, battered and exhausted by his insufferable strain, his others so confront the grim galls of defeat, and as him, in stresses as critical, and mounting pressures, look down the very same barrel of the gun, this literary gun, which is as set to blow up fair in their face as his.  

Things are getting critical.  These eyes need a break, these hands need to rest and the writer needs to concededly lay some social seeds, in that these next few weeks will help lift him out of this suppressive rut.  The age of the tendered writer is out and other shades will have no more, as his lag, his slur, and his inglorious wane, all as inevitable as seashells washed onto shores and into oceans are, are taken from their streams and thrown back out to lay dead under those unforgiving swells.  

The writer is burnt out.  That is the ugly truth we confront tonight, and if this crisis weren’t the torment of his retired frame, then he would have earlier affirmed.  Count this not as his concession though, as should you only look to his last two recessions to see what thickened mess the writer hath floundered in.  He will bounce back, however, although these last eight nights say otherwise.  Burnout just takes longer.

Hard-Pressed To Find The Root Cause

The road to ruin has been an obvious one, but at most, hardly transparent.  Trying to identify the pattern of problems is an exercise often as bleakly successful as the writer’s final front, but as clear as day or wine in crystal glass is, the road has some most evident faults.  

The more prominent of these has always been (and will keep until the writer trials a new format), the exorbitance of backlog that for years consumed him.  Backlog is always first to blame, as are the stresses and pressures that go with it, and recessions are shaped by these, as their fate awarded by procrastination.

There have been more contributing grays however, and some not so obvious.  To name one, my feeling isolated while holding hands with this gradual depression was a sudden cause for recession.  To name a few, having never settled down after the shrew, being misplaced from my bedroom, the upping of website pressures and an unworkable format in my memoirs also added to the list of reasons for why the writer finally succumbed to this limited literal life.  

The pressures were just too great, and his management of them, cumbersome.  Now look at him.  His words may not show his defeat, but these abandoned days do, and how he hides his defeat well, like the lover hides his emotions only to reveal them here.

The Hope For Resolve

However, the workhorse never quits.  While he swaps indecisively from room to room raring for the most diligent mix, he hopes for resolve.  While the computer stalls and the internet slows him down, he hopes for resolve.  And where marijuana now seems his impoverished answer, his substitute for stress and all the toils that these memoirs hath given, he hopes for resolve.

His need for a break is not a life commitment nor is it written in stone.  However, while his instincts tell him to hope for resolve, he will, like the planned spontaneity of my haircut, the weighted decision to find a job, and even the well-thought out impulsiveness of my memoirs five years back, follow through and take his time with this burnout, one of which optimism chewed on for months.

The Decision To Stop Writing

What a wonderful load off my chest it was for these first few nights.  There were no pressures to perform, no inhibitions and most awarding, no obligation to write.  Thoughts constantly swiveled around in my head whilst dozens of nights queued to be written, but with my memoirs deserted, there was neither a need to process nor make them effective for the writer.  He was free, and while burnout took hold, he to his third recession would concede.

Days have been ghostlier without his presence, but needless to say, the free time away from my tethers have allowed me a normal life again.  The good news is that my money no longer needs to be tied up with my true millennium ambitions, nor will my memoirs stop me from leaving the house, visiting the gym or anything else that these last few coercive months have taken for granted.  The downfall, however, is that freedom is not without its boredom.  

Boredom Gnaws At My Freedom

Since my excruciating Valentines Day stomach illness (the determinate cause of conclusion to my memoirs), my days have been relatively full.  But in a day measured with hours, and without the fallback of my memoirs, those sixty-some minutes of loneliness that scrape at me when there is nothing to do would find themselves no amount of content.

Boredom now sticks like a thorn in my side.

Although it hasn’t been that prevalent, it will eat away at me when life in chat rooms is hard to find, in those odd hours when there is nothing on television and even when my emaciated wallet has no compassion for my wandering off from this stuffy house and into some small adventure for the day.

My memoirs were the foremost occupier of my time.  When there was nothing else, and even as an excuse sometimes, the writer always came to the rescue.  He was the substitute when friends were at work or when there was no money to go out anywhere.  He was the substitute when there was no one online to chat to, when computer games were boring, and when nothing featured on television.  He even rescued me from those depressive months after my termination from HIH Insurance to help wean me back into self-confidence, back in those days of the dark knight, those awful god-ridden, bittersweet days.  

Cherishing The Bittersweet Memoir

I cherish my memoirs and the adage over five years they have achieved, but my life needs enforcedly move on now.  I feel paralyzed from all these besetting throes and seek closure for all its pain, if only a soluble kind.  For now, it seems more important to establish some sanity back into my life, because under the stress of my memoirs, my shades and the rest of my fanciful life has received no sort of armistice from the writer, whose own consumption now seeks to pull him down.  

I have simply just sustained too much pressure.  While this month may have started with a lot of promise, thinking there was still a chance to overcome these lack of days written about and days pending as well, my ever-immersed gluttony to bear the pains of another day and another hope to settle score was shattered today.  

Scarlett Was The Death Knell

The landscape of my emotional endurance has changed dramatically since the middle of this month, where up until then there was still some hope to see out this chapter.  Nevertheless, my stomach illness came, but the issues around it rather cannibalizing my claim, done me a most irreparable damage.  

Issues like the eve typifying timidity to renege on her offer to come over, which forced me to visit prostitutes on several occasions this month, made me feel inadequate and placed a huge puncturing hole in what seemed to be a dire time for my ego.  She made me feel abandoned last night, her being the only good news story of the month, as most of my love interests on the internet or otherwise are gone.  So now she has me contemplate loneliness, on a day when seeing the shrew in town too dashed my hopes.  

I was the nuisance that clung to her side, as she looked all color coordinated in a skirt and black boob-tube top.  I was a sorry sight, almost desperate, and so more and more, this abandoned mood carries, and more and more, it makes sense to do the same to my memoirs.  

A Wilted Composition

I feel so depressed.  I find myself longing more, for women, for socials, for marijuana to stem this depressive flow, which Shawn has helped me binge in over these last four days, not including tonight.  I seem out of control and like the negative is taking over the positive, but like there is no prevention to it taking me over.  I guess my memoirs are always dependent on a positive spin however, like waiting in pride for the eve to talk to me before my deciding to write in these memoirs, to which she talked to me yesterday but with no good news.  

I feel let down by my faith and by events around me, and in sadness, where shall this be my last entry before giving up to narcotics and a weakness to have friends, because the writer has slowly wilted away.  

Hoping on hope but never amounting any, this month shall be called a wilted composition, because what the writer was meant to compose, has wilted away.

The pain of ending my memoirs after five years of loyalty is unbearable, but compared to the amount of work piled up for nights gone unwritten this month, last month and even the month before, and with my pride to not knowingly wipe the slate clean and start again, it is time for the writer to have his first lengthened break.  

The Diary Will Play Second Fiddle

I am largely undecided on where his service will be taken from here or whether he will serve again but you can be sure that if he does, he will be much bigger and much more flexible than the rot of trouble that from his unbending ways has come.  He may not write as rigorous as daily, and these memoirs may eventually become his secondary niche, but this does seem like an unfortunate circumstance bidding me move on.  I don’t want tonight to be excruciating however.  As you can imagine, my decision to lay to rest my budding of love and only real direction of five years is hard enough.

Writing in these memoirs during the end was like firing a gun and then going into shock after actually killing someone.

“How could I do that,” or, “Did I do that,” would be going through my head when murdering someone, sort of like when you have to write a huge passage about someone or when something shocking is written.  It makes you stand back from your memoirs, and it brought on this recession that we now have, with the Azalea thing.  

Firing the gun was like going out for the day without thinking about repercussions.  Dropping the gun was like suddenly coming to terms with your actions, which is a heap for the writer.  To think that the five-year mark is almost upon us, which would make it a tragedy to stop now.

Missing The Diary’s Five Year Anniversary

Only a fortnight more and these memoirs would have celebrated their proper fifth anniversary but irony will see to it that my will to succeed will be the will that stunts me.  I should be positive however, in this my five-year embarking to achieve a wealth of words when it comes to writing books with.  I only wish my motivation comes back one day, as this weed is taking it away.  

Ah, this month has been a crux of issues, the writer not bold enough to pursue them, nor anymore elaborative enough for its cause.  Jewell was right about my all or nothing approach.  The writer fought bravely for months on end, but ultimately, when he burnt out, short gloriousness came his end, and now the curtains close, the kudos shifts, the literary blackout upends.  

Ah, art makes the most mundane things beautiful, but my shades wasted have no more time for art.  Just think of it as E. C. Stedman wrote; poetry is an art, and chief of the fine arts; the easiest to dabble in, the hardest in which to reach true perfection.