There are worse things than being in a funk. You could be severely injured, terminally ill, comatose, or, in my case, aware that you’re in a slump while still being in that funk. Like a realized dream that you can’t quite control and can’t quite wake up from, this awareness feels like a bored sports announcer in the middle of another five-game losing streak with the same preventable mistakes spurring more losses. Though I won’t go as far as what we think to be purgatory, I can’t say it’s much different. But at least with purgatory you knew there was a reason.
With a slump it’s not like that. I have no idea why I’m in a slump, nor how exactly I got here. I know that a few client contracts didn’t renew, so I’m poorer than I was before, but I’m not about to line up for food stamps or unemployment. My writing seems the same, albeit less angry. My daily routine, while lately mucked up by sickness, hasn’t changed much. I wake, I work. Sometimes I work out in the morning, sometimes at night.
Perhaps it’s that I don’t go out enough, that I don’t get to any parties or hang out with many people. It’s not that I hate them, it’s that I hate who I am when I do show up. We have constant conversations about other people, talk about shit that’s already happens and there’s usually too much drinking involved. Or we talk about barefooting, which is always results in me going on and on about how well I’m doing without bothering to ask anyone’s else take, most likely because I assume that a) they’re not runners and b) don’t know shit about running anyway.
Shit.
I’m in a funk because I’m too self-involved, too critical of other people and far too willing to talk about myself.
I’m boring, I’m not interesting and I know it.
Fuck, I’m becoming emo.
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