A problem that the Romantics noticed and a problem that I am just now becoming extremely familiar with: emotions are awesome but capricious. They don't answer to anybody. They're inconvenient, sulky messes, and they have no obligation to you.
If I could always maintain a specific mood for as long as I wanted, I would be satisfied. But as it stands I am buffeted by my own moods like nobody's business. Sometimes I don't even feel fully human anymore, because there's just so much I'm conscious of lacking. And then I'm given to writing trite and rambling pieces, and I can tell my work is not good enough, and I can tell I've been completely paralyzed by my own volatility gone wrong.
Logic, to me, has always seemed like a distraction from the underlying emotionality of the universe. It's a very useful distraction, for sure, but somehow not natural, not quite organic. It's a fundamentally unreasonable creature trying to reign in what it fears most about itself. But hiding never helps anything.
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