I worked myself into such a fury yesterday. I yelled at a friend who did nothing to deserve it. I got absurdly upset over something I can't control. I grew anxious.

I was overcome once again by the realization that I'm failing to understand how much of everything lies outside the realm of my control. Instead of letting everything flow through, over, around me, I fight myself.

I see it every day. I sit down in front of this hunk of metal and instead of typing furiously and feeling language flow from my fingertips, they grow dull and listless as they come to know that they know nothing. I love words but I know none. How can prose be spontaneous if there's nothing there?

I know I should make do with what I've got and do whatever I can to add to it, but I can't help but feel frustrated with my incompetence. I keep letting little shortcomings swell to paralyzing incapacity.

And then I complain about it instead of doing something about it.

It's only vanity.

- chris ayer