I'm in a melancholy mood today. Sad, depressed. And it's not because of the rain. The rain just seems to be doing what I told it to do. Come out, cover me up in a blanket of darkness and wetness. Make the trees, the blooming leaves, the buildings and their bricks moist. All that literate stuff...
But, no, I'm in a funk today. A funk so deep it could be etched into a George Clinton record - if he wanted me to sap the party away.
And I try to do the things that I was created for when this mood hits. Write, think, read, create, teach others to listen to and act as participants in the world they are around and are material in.
But then a voice counters that. Tells me that I'm not good enough, that my writing is frivolous at best, that it doesn't contribute anything to society. That I cannot be a teacher again, that I need to let that dream die. That I am worthless.
It is at this moment that I would like to formally say this to that voice:
Shut the F**k Up!
Perhaps not the most graceful words ever committed to proving oneself ready to write for a living. But truer words were never spoken.
