Unhinged

FFT #46

Follow this mind down a rabbit hole, and nine times out of thirteen, you ain’t coming back. 

Harvest is here, and usually, when the crop looks this good, I’m more excited than a toaster at a bread convention, but not this year.

This year, something feels missing, but I can’t pinpoint what it is through these 5 a.m. sleep clumps crusted in my eyes.

I have no organization to my thoughts today and feel like crafting a coherent article or piece is beyond my reach. My head is full of fungi strings that need unraveling before any coherent writing can occur.

Twist the fibers, release the strands, and see what shakes out.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you in the beginning.

Writing is fucking hard. It’s beautiful at the beginning when it’s new, and you’re all gung-ho because you think you’ll be the next Hunter Thompson after that first blog post gets some attention. Pretty soon, eighteen months goes by, and it’s like, man, what am I going to write about this week? 

You put this pressure on yourself. Pressure to perform, pressure to do better than you did last week. All this pressure, and it’s nothing but nonsense. It cramps the style. It ruins the writing. It feels forced. I don’t like to push it just to push it, but that doesn’t mean you don’t show up every day. 

Some days, this is it, man.

Some days, you kill it, and some days, it kills you.

Some days, it’s two thousand words of pure snot-laced nonsense you wouldn’t read to your dog for fear of him thinking you’re some sort of crazy person. But sometimes, the point is not for it to make sense. Sometimes, a feller needs to write without the guardrails of Grammarly and AI clogging up the pipes. 

Unfiltered and unhinged. 

Raw. 

Blemishes and all. 

Some people write for decades without getting noticed. Some people don’t get noticed until long after they are dead?

And why the question mark? Why now?

What is your legacy? What will you leave behind? And is it egotistical to think we must leave something behind? It’s all a big game, anyway. In the end, none of it hardly matters, so you might as well say what you need to say, whether or not John Mayer tells you to do so. Do it anyway. Write your shit. Paint your pretty pictures. Join the Channel Six news team if that’s your thing.

You do you, boo.

The only one truly paying attention is you.

Most will forget you in a year or two. In a hundred years, no one will remember you at all. And if they do, it’s because you did something remarkable or spectacularly foolish. What’ll it be, sport? 

Our generation has no great war, no great struggle. Our war is not only with ourselves but against Instagram and the algorithms. We’re losing the battle for our attention.

Helplessly passing your time in the grassland away is no way I want to live. No-sir-ee, Bob. Who’s Bob, anyway? And why are we constantly telling him no? 

Ignore the critics and do what you do...

People will get in the way. Some people are jerks. Assholes who get their jollies being assholes. Watch out for those. The ego is extra fragile around these types, the ones who slice your defenses and make you question your worth. 

Forget those clowns. This is your circus, not theirs.

Buy the ticket.

Take the ride.

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I appreciate you all.

FFT updates may be scarce and spotty as we hit the fields over the next few weeks, but I’ll report back when the time is right.

Keep your ear to the grindstone, and have a safe harvest.

I’ll catch ya on the flip side.