Дневник Сумасшедшего 1090

12325

Today, an attempt to use self-talk for building up my understanding of the concept of confidence led nowhere. Although I was talking for more than half an hour, nothing exceptional came across my mind. I expected to get something from thinking itself, hoping that even if I came up with no insights, I would at least be able to use the verbalized stream of consciousness in order to write a post. I failed. I gave up writing and started playing chess. Damn it! There is such an astonishing difference between yesterday’s and today’s mood. If I try to force myself to think, it works terrible. Where is this goddamn easiness which I had yesterday? Maybe it runs away because I talk more than necessary, sharing everything with everybody. I mean, something really profound for me doesn’t evoke any emotion in others, so that after talking to them and seeing their coldness, I instinctively (involuntarily!) take their side and lose my interest as well. I recall times when I held to one thought for many weeks or even months, not sharing it with anybody, and as a result having a very fruitful harvest after it had flourished in my mind.

Well, perhaps, I have to divide journaling and creative thinking. I dunno why, but there is always this feeling, a sort of irrational expectation of the appearance of wise thoughts and brilliant ideas, every time I take pen to hand. This feeling too often brings disappointment. I need journaling to maintain self-analysis, and nothing else should bother me here; whereas all sorts of creative work must be directed at making something valuable. The former is all about precision.

Back: http://proza.ru/2022/05/20/1032
Forward: http://proza.ru/2022/05/22/953