there is something about creative work - (whether what I do is really considered creative or not, I'm calling it creative) it has a taxing output on you.
I'm not whining - but there comes a point when you look back and you think,
"wow, that was crap."
Really, the part that is distressing is not that I put out crap - but that I didn't care enough that I put out crap. That the effort to make it more than just the written equivalent of slop on a plate was not enough to keep me from doing it. Its that I didn't care at all, because I felt that it didn't matter.
So I'm assigning the lack of desire to the sense that I'm busted. Wide open and splayed out on the sidewalk. Yucky remains of what was once live - but got hit by an oncoming bus. (way too many mixed metaphors...forgive me.)
I decided on a whim that I need out. But not all the way - not Hemmingway, not Hunter S. Thompson "out" either. Yet I'm not going to lie to myself - I'm taking their inspiration. (the theory, not application - so don't worry... I'm about to explain myself...)
So I'm taking a mini-trip and going to the opposite end of the spectrum of comfortable. The (nearest) physical manifestation of the creative barren-ness that I am currently feeling. To find out what the lack of comfort and safety feels like in more than just my head.
I'm hopeful it'll restore me, and maybe burn off some of the Nietzsche thats been lurking about lately. That or I'm really over thinking a road trip and trying to feel like I need to justify time away from work.
I don't know which is sadder.