The act of creation seems to pause my feelings of panic.
When I feel desperate, I tend to feel slightly better after writing a few sentences. This is not because I am automatically writing anything good, sometimes I write garbage.
I simply have a few more words than I had just minutes before. I can go from having nothing, to having something, in seconds.
Through this struggle between desperation and boredom, I have grown a body of work, and despite that body of work holding little value to the rest of the world, currently to me, it is the most valuable thing I have.
Not only is it my most prized possession, but looking through the lens of desperation, I think it is safe to say that this body of work has kept me sane. The boxes of full notebooks, sitting unread, are an example of all the time I have spent being productive, rather than being terrified, sitting still.
I cherish my sanity, and I hate my desperation.
Sure, I would rather be calm, peacefully thinking perfectly sane thoughts about the color of the sky. But the sky isn’t always that pretty, and occasionally I break a bone and find myself feeling desperate.
I would gladly write about the beautiful skyline, or riding in a sailboat, or dreaming about a voyage to another planet, but not every day is mystical.
So, today is one of those days that my thoughts have turned to desperation.
But I am happy that I have not yet quit. I have not thrown up my hands and said I’ve had enough. Instead, my desperation forces me to use my hands.
I tend to pick up a pen.
I am grateful that I have acquired this strange survival mechanism.
— 283 Words.