Musings on Writing and Life

I look around the chaos of my room, my car, my relationships, and
my life and I think, if I can’t write about this, then I’m just fucked up. I was
born, I was fucked up, and eventually, dead. Why can’t I get my shit together?
Why am I such a mess, inside and out? I look around at the stacks of paper,
piles of clothes, old half-drunk water bottles, and plastic bags, and I get
overwhelmed, so I do nothing. And I look inside, and I see my mind, filled with
anxiety, obsessions, compulsions, disorders, and depression, and I am
overwhelmed by that, too. How can I ever clean up my life? What if I don’t ever
get into grad school or become a writer? I don’t want to live and die having
done nothing but create a mess for others to clean up. If I died today, that’s
what would happen. I can’t sleep. I feel sad and angry and combative and lonely.
Writing is my only solace because when I write, it means I have a bit of hope
left, that maybe I will live to see the day that my life is put in print for all
to see, making meaning of it, analyzing it, critiquing it as if it were nothing
more than a literary work. I wouldn’t mind my life so much if someone benefitted
from it. Existing would seem more worthwhile.