Once again, he was disoriented. He hoped for inspiration to come; there was no more spark, no more catalyst within him. External energy was required for him to create art. This is what he wanted: to create art. But he couldn’t fight the destitution of his life—paying bills, grocery shopping, observing automobiles as they zoomed to work and shopping stores. He was entangled in this world—the world of complacency. Although, complacency was too much of a euphemism to explain something so complicated.
He stared at his screen for a few more minutes, before stroking his rabo and slipping under his covers. In a world so obsessed with being someone, he could never enjoy life through experience. He would look back on his life with regret and contempt; his pursuits were a series of short-lived progressions leading nowhere but complacency and boredom. It was always the two-year mark when he would change ambitions. His current ambition was writing.
Writing was different. This ambition wasn’t made of only flesh and blood; it wasn’t about a Nietzschean pursuit of power. There was an understanding and consoling of the soul which none of his previous pursuits could give him. To be someone was demanded in life regardless. To be someone was a necessity of being human; and if you chose indifference instead of being, it would be picked for you. He was lucky to have picked a good set of ideals he could base his identity and life around. If not, he would’ve ended up truly free on the side of the street as a schizophrenic.
Schizophrenia has strong roots in ontology; there is something to be deciphered about the human being from studying schizophrenia. Schizophrenics look at themselves not as selves, but as a series of different mechanisms; they’re unable to organize the complexity of the human being to form a stable identity; their identity is not even precarious; their identity is shattered. Writing was the glue holding this complex being of multiple parts. But unlike other pursuits—bodybuilding, athletics, entrepreneurship, being a family man and worker—writing was a less adhesive glue.
The form of the writer is less structured and stable than most forms of being. The only structure is a loose set of grammatical guidelines. Chaos, symbolism, illogical thinking, and contradiction all can be used for a rhyme or reason. Sometimes this writer would write illogical nonsense, just to appease his animal and induce catharsis. Music was the only thing that was similar for him.
So, he wrote daily. The more confused, the more he wrote. And he was always confused and filled with an internal noise. Only when the noise stopped could he experience life through being it. For now, he was a voyager on a stormy sea looking out at the world from afar. Rarely would the sea calm, but when it did, he would dock his vessel on shore and become another reactive biological organism traveling through space. From another vessel far into the sea, this failed writer was now seen as part of a mass of chaos reacting in a unified way; no longer an individual, no longer a writer. Another writer dead at sea.
Sublimation for My Turmoil 