Forgive me for stealing your song name, if any of the band members of the Strokes ever sees this. Julian, Albert, Fabrizio, Nick, and Nickolai, I’m sorry, even though you guys broke up a while ago. But I can’t help that it’s a great title.
As Orwell puts it,
“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”
A blog post has the potential to be just as similar. Especially when it comes to the conclusion. But I never really reach the conclusion. Writing is like reaching for something that gets farther away. Between the space and object are ideas,opinions, and memories that attach themselves like extra pieces of legos on an already “completed” rocket ship. All my blog posts are unfinished pieces of writing, which ends up as a mega-aqua-rocket ship. Like trees that branch off from itself or from other branches, or charmless charm bracelets begging for attention, or a plain fro-yo screaming for toppings, there’s always something to add. There is no end(oh hello title reference)!
I can’t possibly be the only person that after finishing a post, suddenly remembers everything I should have written in the post. I like to picture my mind as tangly, knotted Strawberry Bootlaces that have never been cut up, with no beginning or end piece to be a found. Ideas are interconnected like that, which is why it’s so hard to write about a specific topic(at least for me it is). There are some things that you absolutely cannot stop writing about, but alas it’s inevitable to stop.
The sole reason why I avoid writing blog posts is because I would probably spend my whole life just trying to write about one topic. When I get tired of writing about something or if I can’t come up with anything at the moment, I’ll just end it there. Every now and then, I find myself towering over a topic I can’t seem to stop myself from continuing, that I just cut it off to keep myself sane. There is a certain pain shrilling agony that accompanies cutting things short when there is so much to say. Those fidgety moments of trying to figure out what to say is exactly how I feel about ending a post. What if I want to add something else? What if I think up of greater things? Why should I limit myself to writing only this blog post? Why don’t I create a chain of things related to this topic? If I can go nonstop about a topic, how long will it take me to finish one satisfying post? Why write blog posts that you can later add more to? How do you know when to stop?
This writing itself is the epitome of “there will be more ideas to add on”. Some things seem endless, some things have ends, and some things don’t even have ends. These are the inner workings of a lazy perfectionist. I fear that I will carry the thought that nothing I do is ever good enough, into my adulthood. The thoughts that can be heard over a police siren, and in the depths of the ocean water filling in your ears, and the music blaring nearly breaking your earphones only to rid the thoughts that there will always be room for improvement. Sometimes all you can do is accept what is in front of you, just as it is. Like Orwell mentioned, “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle…”
Picture credits: Dorelys Smits