a small update

Writing again. Just an edit of a previous work, but it's creativity, and it's happening.

I'm feeling a little bit better.

Which may or may not be a dramatic understatement.

Misery comes and goes, but my cats still want their breakfast.

The sky is always darkest right before a tornado.

The only way left to go is any direction not immediately hampered by a physical object.

I've got nothing left to lose, except my job, my home, my car, my pets, etc.

Somehow, I think I just described my anxieties instead of my relief. How telling.



I'll put some real writing here, soon. Clichés are fun to kill, however.

my mood: 05/13/2012

For all my pretentious writerly prowess, I can't come up with a reasonable description for how I feel that would be any more eloquent than mashing my face against the keyboard. Which would look a bit like this: rdgfsn,jlgsrdfkhjd,n n,j df nj gdfjknl dfsnjklgdshnjk , but probably bear a less distinct pattern.


Wait, here we go:
I want to vomit. I want to vomit so hard that I vomit my stomach, my liver, my pancreas, my heart, my personality, my anxieties, my goals, and my soul, if that's not asking too much. Then I want to take some vitamins and grow a new one(s). Then I want to get in my car and start driving and not stop until I reach something so grand and unfamiliar that I forget where I came from and where I was going. A town, maybe? With small, dilapidated houses built by the hands of generations gone. Wooden floors held together by wooden dowels, each board lain with care and precision.

I'm not sure if this qualifies as depression or maybe something more clinically interesting, something someone would enjoy studying and writing a paper on and graduating with highest honors as a result of, magna cum laude, and everyone claps. I know I'm angry. Blindly angry, livid even, chomping at the proverbial bit to take the wooden bat in my closet--not the metal one, the impact wouldn't be so satisfying--and destroy everything I own. I want to burn this house to the ground and leave with nothing to my name but my good character and integrity.

I want to sleep on someone's floor and have nothing to go home to, but I can't do that, because this frail body wouldn't function without the $2,100 bed I just had to purchase. But I want to. I want to take joy in the simple act of getting in the shower in the morning. I want to work ten hours a week and have nothing to purchase but a few groceries and my small portion of someone's rent. I want to own nothing but a notebook and a reliable pen.

I want to honestly desire to erase the last three years of my life. But I can't bring myself to want it. I can't dash that hesitation, that sentiment. I can't hold my grudge and feel justified about it and chalk up the time as wasted and move on.

I can't stop loving, and by extension, I can't stop hurting.

I want to be naive again.

I want to start over.

But we can't all have what we want, can we?

where am i?

Deja vu is becoming not a phenomenon, but a state of being. This world is a mockery of the one I once lived in--a vivid dream not my own, lacking the subtleties that made me feel at home. Oh, Dreamer: please, would you wake for me? I long to return to familiar faces, unscathed by the shadow of this plaster sky.