It's Okay to Write Crap

I don't like writing when I'm tired. I'm tired right now. What I'm writing is awful because it hurts to read the little letters. I write when tired because it is usually when I have free time, but the quality is so low it just feels like a waste. I use "I" too much and go slowly because my fingers make stupid mistakes that make me want to bite them off in frustration. I should stop writing. If I don't write though, my mind tries to write in bed, instead of falling asleep. It is like taking the walls away from a toddler rather than the crayons.

I become overly self-conscious when tired. How many times have I used the word "write" in this so far? I'm too tired to count but it feels like a lot. Do I have a point yet? ...not one I remember.

Okay, here's one: "sometimes it is okay to write crap." It feels bad because you know it is junk and feels like a waste of time. Yet...what I've noticed (when more chipper) is that writing junk makes me less critical toward my more "average" sessions. Furthermore, by writing crap, it becomes easier to identify when the writing is good and when it is garbage. This is done when fully rested, of course. Right now I couldn't recognize good writing if someone was tattooing it on my thigh.

Why am I not wearing pants right now? I'm kind of cold. But mostly tired. Tired feels like your mind is overattentive to various sensory inputs: the soreness of your eyes; the feel of your tailbone pressing into the chair; the insectile scratch of the stupid label of your stupid shirt on the back of your neck. Tired makes you irritable because your sensory input is heightened and overwhelms your ability to concentrate on places and people and persimmons that exist only in your mind. 

I'm pushing this looking for turth. I thought I was looking for "truth", but I've decided that this typo is a better goal right now. ...The region of Turth, located along the mountains that rim the coast of an empty land, save this small pocket which was dutifully settled long before the inhabitants realized that nothing lay beyond and they were dooming their children and their children's children to live out their lives on a meaningless rocky prairie beside a badlands. Their stubbornness will define them by both helping them survive and trapping them here, hidden away with their contempt for all things elsewhere, a scorpion of spite by the rocks.

That should do for now. There's a dog barking nearby. I'm going to go yell at it, or give it the rest of my salad. Maybe we can bond over raggidocio and honey mustard. Goodnight and good riddance.