I wouldn’t say it’s often, but it’s not uncommon – a half-leftover window to my energy, an under-used commodity, it’s too late now and I can only use it quite sparingly. When the head throbs and I’m angry with my job or someone’s notions of a vengeful God or something that similarly makes me want to sob, I feel different. It’s good to have the blood boil, from time to time, to feel like I am back, embroiled in a fight for life and pride and something meaningful, with people on my side.
But there’s no meaning here, there’s barely even fear of slipping into mediocrity – I don’t recognise this lounge lizard as even being me. Where is the intensity?
It’s just a rage that comes up sometimes, over the lip of a coffee cup or in frustration with dysfunctional rhymes. It’s nice to feel it here again, but it’s not linked to any genuine pain. How can I suffer for my art when my art is now just part of an increasingly foreign-sounding past?
I wouldn’t say it’s often, but it’s not uncommon that I am so grateful for the bad days, because it’s how I know I’m still alive.