Maybe I am Insane

Trying to write fails me. I can only start something then get annoyed and bored with it then trash it. Every time I crumple a piece of paper Kyle tells me “You know what Hemingway said about that right?” I am reminded how Hemingway said crumpling paper would make you insane (or something of that nature).

I reply, “Screw Hemingway.” And he laughs because I love Hemingway.

I tried to write the same poem for a month once. I didn’t work, the words didn’t fit and the rhythm was off. I ripped pages from my note book and threw them, crumpled, into the trash can. Music didn't help. I would end up wrapped in the comforting blanket of familiar lyrics and forget about my own poetry. Reading poetry didn’t help either. I read “Digging” fifteen times in a row. It only made me passionate about hard work and ethics and all that rot. I gave up at the end of the month. I didn’t think it was worth my time. Maybe I was wrong.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over again expecting a different result. Sitting with a pen and a notebook and music never really changes the result. Paper usually ends up in the trash can. I usually end up with my head in my hands wondering what is wrong with me. Maybe Hemingway was right. Maybe I am insane.