Mad Scientist Perhaps

I suppose I should just write.

It's been so long since I've written much.

I wrote a poem not too long ago; I drafted a bit more of one of my stories — that's like saying I drank water a week ago.

I am withering away due to a lack of writing – I'm withering away due to a lot of things, but lack of writing is a significant factor.

And why am I writing about my lack of writing? I don't know.

I don't know.

I had to start somewhere; even an aimless meta-writing would have to do.

I suppose my real question is, "What do I want?"

The first thing that comes to mind is oblivion.

I feel like that's not noble or even really practical.

I know it sounds stupid, but I want to be a mad scientist: off his rocker but full of genius.

Perhaps I just don't have enough genius to support proper insanity. Perhaps I need to become insane to really undo my genius' inhibitions.

Who knows, who knows.

Half the appeal of insanity is the unconcern about being unhinged.

I am unhinged but ever so fretful about it. I imagine that, if I were insane, I'd be unhinged, but I'd still be moving, living, acting – with much less fear as well.

To be a mad scientist, I'd need to have an obsession. I think that's one of the many protons in my great bleakness: I have no particular obsession.

There are plenty of things that catch my fancy, plenty of things that have held my fancy, but no obsessions, no blind furies, no unbending pursuits.

I don't know what's got me all bent out of shape. Quite alongside that, I don't know what shape I'm supposed to be.

I am even aware of the fact that I must choose my path (despite the rampant, debilitating notion that one must wait for "God's calling" like it's some tag clipped to you when your name gets drawn from the hat). Despite this awareness, I am lost, fuddled, mired: I don't know what I'd want; I don't know what path I'd choose.

A recurring notion is that I have not been bold enough to commit myself to my desires. Among a vast horde of vicious notions, I think this one is true as well.

But now what?

Who knows, who knows.

That's why I long for insanity: my impulses would become much stronger, and I wouldn't piddle around so endlessly and aimlessly.

I like to think I have some untapped genius, some hidden, furious, creative capacity waiting to be unleashed from my own fears and apprehensions.

Who knows, who knows.

Who knows.