Wasting Words

I think I may need to start Writing some Really Bad Prose. Just vomiting it out, watching it slosh everywhere, letting it dribble down the drains. Pour enough out of me until it starts to filter into Mediocre Prose. Because while I think I will never be a Prose Writer, I feel like there is some kind of vague connection between the relative quality (as I perceive it) of prose I do produce (i.e. almost exclusively this blog at this time) and how I relate to / project / reflect on myself. Not completely clear on how this relation is laid out, and not saying I produce my best in times of self-contentment and worst in times of self-loathing,  but there's something, hiding between correlation and cause and effect. I have the creeping fear that my ability to express myself is degrading, and degrading quite quickly.
I used to keep a traditional journal/diary, writing about my day thoughts experiences etc, but that has dissolved into scribbled diaryesque "poems"--not because the medium of poesy is better for expressing my life (though it is) but because that is the only shape my grasping, fragmented and sprawling, inarticulate attempts to describe can mimic. The amount of question marks in these poems has been growing. I flip back through the pages and their numbers make me anxious, an assault force of doubt assembling.
I flail about with words trying to recreate whatever is echoing in my head, and generally it's a pretty frustrating process. When I do this for sentences and paragraphs and at the end there is nothing insightful or revealing or even charming and witty to show for it, it just makes me... sad. And very impotent. Talk may be cheap, but I believe there is absolutely such thing as a waste of words. I also believe I do it all the time. And if I am going to claim words as the tools of my trade, it seems disrespectful, wrong, to go on wasting them without acknowledgment. So here's to slaughtering words relentlessly and hoping their corpses pile up enough to support something more beautiful.

..

I get headaches (or perhaps singular, a headache) every evening now. Internal pressure expanding with no definite point of origin or concentration, just an amorphous distraction of pain. I figure it's  a) a godlet making ready to emerge from my head   b) my body telling me I need to give some serious consideration to my life w/r/t waiting tables  or   c) I need to get my sinuses Roto-Rootered . Today, the buildup has started early. Guess that means I'm getting a headstart on the day. Ha. Guess I'll see where it takes me.