Cycles and Addiction

I am an attention addict. I know this. So much of what I do, or try to do, amounts to the efforts of a small child shrilly screaming "Look at me! Look at me!" to the crowd of adults. Tell me I'm funny, tell me I'm smart, tell me I'm worth something. It isn't enough. Family and friends usually fill this need... is that the baseline? Do other people get their validation fix from that, and it's enough? E-mail me about the website, laugh at my jokes, publish my story, buy my t-shirt. Some of the praise and attention is incredible when I stop and think about it, certainly above the average sort of day to day life. But it burns hot and the absence is black and smells of smoke. When did I start to need so much praise? Why do I feel so hollow? I must be special, must be superior, must be unique and interesting.

There is much I could work on tonight, and many hours left before I will permit myself to sleep. This should be a winning combination. I should be able to make a dent in a short story, or refine a routine, or work on one of the long forgotten areas of this very site, or accomplish something which would redeem myself in some way. But all of this requires thought. And there are many thoughts I don't want to have tonight. Each time I start thinking, they creep in like... ninjas. There's your bloody damn similie: ninjas. Creating is pain. So much easier to drown in someone else's than to reach into my brain and rip my own ideas out. There are worlds out there, in there. Worlds upon worlds, and it seems I am in none of them, here in this room in the filth of night turning to morning I am lost.

Why do I post this? Why do I share? This is bile that must be spat out. These are my ghosts that needed to be exorcized before I can move on. This was venting, and you were standing in front of the exhaust port.