Today I got to that state of spentness after a fast few days in which I hesitated to open my journal because I felt unequal to the task of articulating my thoughts and was afraid that what I wrote would be negative (busyness provokes venting in me) and that wouldn't be fair to posterity because there are good things dancing all around me as well and who am I to skewer a happy memory by introverted angst? My brain sucked in breath to further the tirade and suddenly my soul butted in, painfully polite, with the pert observation that the point of a journal is to have a shelter all one's own where one can rant and rave to the heart's content and that the historians who will one day ferret out my brilliant private jottings when I am famous (and dead) will simply assume the usual and say that all artistic types are angsty and self-obsessed. Thanks, soul. Now I feel better. I think.
Does anyone else ever have these inner conversations?