On Ultra Creative Sensations (Not Really)

I feel like writing something, especially while I have that tired ultra creative sensation running through me. It used to happen a lot to me, though not much since high school. I mention high school a lot, and on some level that bothers me because I often cite high school as not being the most memorable time in my life, and I also don't like to dwell too much on the past. That's what I tell myself often enough. I'm not saying that what I'm writing right now is creative, but it's something, and I used to write a lot of nothing down. If I had been aware of Sartre or existentialism when I was 16, I would have realized that I was writing about nothing a whole hell of a lot. I knew about Kafka. I made a lot of claims about Kafka that I could only back up with a false air of confidence. I'm pretty sure I didn't read parts two and three to The Metamorphosis until I was a Freshman in college. But I was a fan of the creativity, the seeming randomness of that story. I hear that Kafka didn't think too much of his stories, and I assume that it's semi-well-known that he wanted all of his work to be destroyed after he died, though that didn't happen thanks to a friendly but hapless friend who turned out to be a hack at finishing and editing Kafka's unfinished pieces.

I was reading a book just now, about fifteen minutes ago that had a lot to do about death. I really don't think I like death that much, though death is in the future, and I'd much rather think about the future than about the past. Now, what I really should be doing is concentrating more on the present because I have more control over that than anything else, but as a human being with inconsistent and often conflicting and confusing emotions, I must dwell on both the past and future and a myriad of unpleasant thoughts. Not to mention the bad dreams. I have a lot of bad dreams. I'm thinking it's my room. I should probably get out sometime, but where to go? What to do? You see, the present is a boring, yet actually quite comfortable place. I should probably try meditating more often.

But this book's first 40 some pages were good, but they were sad. Sad isn't the right word. There was more to it. It was a nightmare. You try to put yourself in the main character's shoes, and you feel uncomfortable. What would I do if I were surrounded by death? How could I handle this situation or that situation or the dying mother, the dead father? Maybe this is just a sign of a good book, something that rips open your chest and starts to massage it, not in a relaxing way, a menacing, knowing way. It isn't comfortable. Literature isn't supposed to be. What have I gotten myself into?