infinite jest

To introduce the bratty, confusing complaint that follows, I will say I wrote this after I watched a movie on David Foster Wallace based on a book about an interview of him for his book, Infinite Jest. It’s called The End of the Tour. I haven’t read Infinite Jest, but I have an inside joke about it with myself. So if I ever talk about it with someone, I’ll be laughing while I have no reason to be. But, this movie hurt me. There is some language I don’t normally use included in this writing, and I’m sorry, but I was hurt.

I hope I am not the only one who gets so into a movie I’m watching that the world it creates blends into my reality for a few moments, or longer, after it’s over. And I’m sure I’m not the only one, because this is the success of illusion, of entertainment. It’s why we give our time to another creator; it allows us to forget ourselves for a moment, our miserable lives for a moment. It is the achievement of art, I believe. But that’s another thing, that’s too much of an echo of the song I am always singing. Now I am talking about how everything feels so much more solemn and deliberate and serious in my real world, and I want to do something with it. The problem is that my story won’t be finished in the next hour and a half. I have to keep fucking living. I have a lot of fear. I don’t actually believe in myself. I think it was a mistake to ever call myself a writer, because I’m not making it happen. I have no fucking clue how to make it happen. I have no story to write, I’m just in love with the idea of writing it and having people read it. And that’s ego, it’s only ego and nothing more. There’s no power in me that can take words and transform them into something that resonates with people so much that something, anything at all, changes. I think that’s fine. I don’t think I need to change anything, much less transform people. I just want all this absolute passion I have to be worth something. Apparently passion is worth something! Apparently it’s the only thing we have to combat the falsities of the material world, the illusions that we conjure up about this life that we get and what it means. So like, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t write a book.

Everything I’m doing is a distraction, everything ever done is a distraction. I don’t actually want to have to sit and deal with the absolute fear that accompanies the passion. I have these romantic ideals that I tend to entertain about people, about art, and about the world. To sink into that system of belief is protection against nihilism which I’m also drawn to, and I’m afraid of that. So what would happen if I was to actually sit down one day and realize what it would mean if I just gave up the belief that one day I will give up? Why don’t I just give up now, end the suffering that I feel should be prolonged in order to miraculously surprise myself and achieve something with this one day? but even by this act of writing at this moment, I’m trying. I’m trying to understand myself; I’m trying to understand what anything means. To believe that anything has meaning is combating the fear.

I’m only worried about myself, my identity, and what I will become. The only reason that it feels worth my time to express myself now is the fact that I believe my self expression binds me to someone else, anyone else, and that’s worth it. Because then it’s not just about me. Is this romantic? Is this realistic? Is this belief the only thing I have as a writer to keep writing/as a person to keep trying? Is it enough?