Lucky for me, I have regrouped and here I am, perhaps not as good as I was, but getting there. How funny is it that life is supposed to make you wise and lodge all these insights into your brain, yet when I look back at what I wrote before I was even 20 it's leaps and bounds better than anything I can muster now?
Some would argue it's the dramatism. The punch of being young and feeling all sorts of stuff for the first time is enough to make a Picasso out of anyone, if they care to express. But when I think upon those "firsts" now, I want to vomit at having been so blind. Such is life for me. I hate for not being insightful, yet having become insightful I hate what it has rendered my words to be.
Stupidity and self-hatred have no bounds! I can remember writing poems about a boy I loved who I was sure I'd be with the rest of my life. I look at those every other year or so, sometimes they captivate me, other times I laugh at the pure teenager left there on the page, as if to say, "Hey, um, I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I will make it sound lavish and painful."
Too true. We all have that fledgling person inside us, perhaps this is the same idiot who makes us question every single thing we write or say; every single action we take is judged by this hater within us.
Get out your pen, get out your paper, write that sunuvabitch away. Tell her you'll miss her, tell her you'll read her poems once in a while, but for the time being, no matter how cool she might have been in the late 1990s, she's gotta pack it up, at least for now. Send your self-hating inner-teen to rehab ... doesn't mean you ever have to pick her up. Unless you want to. If you do, make sure she doesn't have keys to the family car.
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