rites of spring

could i retreat into a landscape of white and void of color, where within the comfort of cold no beauty could be know to me or lost? why can't i? it seems as the days drag on and the faster time goes by i lose more and more of my idealized self to routine and complacency. i find myself less clever, sharp, or witty than i remember being when every action was executed with vigor, every moment was exciting, and instances were intense and all-consuming. is the cost of a life lived ad-naseum, or is it perspective? i really dislike that i only seem to pose questions and never seem (no, never ever) have sufficient answers. when it comes to expository endeavors, i always feels as though i owe more, more to whoever the reader is, and more to myself. i could spend hours on writings or otherwise and be left feeling in debt to both myself and those i share them with. am i being too hard on myself? who's to say? i wish there were such an authority, a final say in my everything. someone to break my minor level addiction to repetitiveness and second-guessing stasis. it just isn't enough for me to be clever anymore, if i am anymore at all. when all is done i not only feel like i've somehow accidentally omitted my true feelings, it's also as though i'm incapable of articulate, concise self-expression because my dishonest (however provoking) writings aren't conveying anything other than a superficial message. my real feelings are best relayed through a series of polysyllabic grunts and sighs. a few misplaced feelings assorted into collections of expressions such as, "i hate life," "fuck," "end me," and "i adore her," seem to be the most cathartic phrases i possess. does that mean i cannot do more, or better? is the ability to do so inherent as i thought it to be, or learned? have i just not learned to express myself they way i'd like to, poetic and complicated? or are "end me" and it's fellow phrases superior in their simplicity? i just see good art and simultaneously become inspired and jealouse. "why couldn't/didn't i do that?" and in retrospect i understand that art and see that i could have. but then again, everytime i try my hand at it i fail. is it because i go into it without virtuous intent and/or inspiration? do i have nothing to contemplate and reflect on? or am i just incapable of doing so in the fashion i'd wish to? this should be the title of this discourse, - "Why can't I?: Aaron's futile quest for answers." i believe my attempts are done so in vain, so therefore the result is a vain product, provokingly empty. but I also do not want to believe there is a formula to good writing. sure there may be some key-stone tactics to approaching a body of work, but all and all i want to be naive to believe that the best works come through autmatically, effortlessly, without revision or premeditated form. maybe i'm right in saying i'm naive. i don't know what it is i need to be proud of what i do, if i should be. for some, nothing is ever good enough, a recurring theme in the serial of my existence. i need feedback badly. i need that mentor, that authority. i need (to be) a hero. the most wonderful friend told me once my biggest weakness was that i too often doubt my abilities, and am so afraid of failure that it prohibits me from doing things, accomplishing things. that comment has single-handedly driven me to defy myself. i keep that sentence in my memory, and apply it to everything i do. Comment Read