The Angry Muse
Every year, I re-read the essays I’ve written in the year before. It’s unclear as to whether I should be happy or sad as I observe the past immaturity in my writing. Every year, my worldview is shifted in a radical degree — and it’s damn scary. It makes me realize just how wrong I can be, even having looked from “every possible angle.” My struggles used to be found between worldviews. Nowadays it seems that my discoveries are leading more inward, within the formed framework of my mind. Even in things I once thought I understood, there are new angles to pursue and new secrets to unlock.
Writing is a painful art. It involves constant living in the past, because re-reading is the surest way to improve and to note improvement. But just glancing over an old essay evokes enough disgust to make me physically wince. I see the broken worldview with holes, the fascination I have with a world I don’t understand, and a desperate seeking to understand things way beyond my comprehension.
I don’t believe I’ll ever write an essay I actually like. It’s okay though, I’ll keep writing because otherwise my muse will throw a fit.
