Others have said it better.

"We seem to have evolved into a society of mourned and misplaced creativity. A world where people have simply surrendered to (or been beaten into submission by) the sleepwalk of work, domesticity, mortgage repayments, junk food, junk TV, junk everything, angry ex-wives, ADHD kids and the lure of eating chicken from a bucket while emailing clients at 8pm on a weekend."

I have a deep need for creative catharsis. Mediocre talent and laziness get in the way more often than I'd like to admit. Articulating my thoughts onto something/anything external always precedes being "good" at something or even my desire to be well liked. The most frustrating thing to me is the break down of this articulation, when I cannot find the write words, vision. etc. Ideas sound better in my head and I allow them to turn stale and stagnant to where seeing the product is nauseating. This failure to get my head out into the world in one way or another can be very heart breaking. It is like my self worth can be tied to something no one else will ever lay eyes on. I doubt that I have found my medium, that is to say I have one/some. The jig is up. Is the self-effacing shit only keeping me married to the status quo? I want to fight against myself to get.it.out just in case. There is unequivocal beauty in the world, like curtains blowing in breeze, and I would like to contribute a sliver to the pile.


1. 2. (read this)

I do obsess

It's Sunday. I keep looking at the clock, anxiously. Sometimes I'm scared to go to sleep.
Sleep has me feeling so vulnerable. Why do I have to define all my dreams?

I often dream about: malls, hot dog stands, dogs, riding in cars, blow jobs, work, the past, physical fights.
When I dream, I feel: anxious, betrayed, confused, hungry, physically strong.

When I look in the mirror I imagine fingertips in place of my teeth.
I would love to paint my finger teeth.

Draw because I can't write.
Write because I can't draw.

I'm dreading every second. of. this.

Here's your silver lining

I drink water until I can no longer breathe
I often wonder, “is this what it feels like to drown?”

How do I grow when our roots are entwined?

Inhale because the walls are breathing.
Exhale because I quickly forget.

Balancing the spinning plates.
Forward is a motion, not an emotion.

I am inferior.




How the fuck do I grow?

Pubic / Public

Fist blog post and I'm nervous. I'm a very private person. I don't share what I don't have to. I hide. Obscure. Smile. The goal for me is to be open and honest. Hello, I am a dweller. Hello, I so very much want you to like me. Fucking hello alright! Great! Now let's make my pubic public...

Because these are my thoughts at night

I will crawl underneath the nail bed of your big toe
I will creep across your shins
Pay no attention to me as I slither through your thighs

I will swim through your intestines
I’m the captain of your bowels (!)
Ascending

Lump
In
Your
Throat

I will scrape my way to your brain
I will scratch
I will eat

I will shit

I will encompass you

Sleep is for the Weeks

Will I always be tired? I look so tired. I am beginning to look old and tired; I can feel my face sag with gravity. I looked at myself on a train in the countryside and said to myself, alone, "I look old(er). I look different." My reflection was moving fast and time was escaping quickly at the momentum of the train. It was as if in that moment I saw all of the sleepless nights and stress and travel nestled underneath my eyelids. As if time was clinging to my pores. You can see the smiles and grimaces of the past. Nothing could be hidden. Nothing could be changed at this point. I had already smoked too many cigarettes and hadn't worn enough sunscreen--the damage had been done. The damage is done. I will always be tired. I want to sleep. Sleep is an escape from my reality even though I always remember my dreams. My anxiety seems validated there. Sometimes in my dreams, I am too tired to see. Am I resigning myself, instead of grasping onto a refusal to give in?

I wonder a lot of things.
I wonder how that woman reporter on CNN could read from her telepromter that stated how two rapists were "so promising..."  etc. and could keep a straight face.
I wonder how women (and men), but mostly young girls, can survive without believing in feminism and/or calling themselves a feminist. How women go out of their way to say they are not a feminist.

I like words and even like to write them down on paper/screen. I'm also extremely sentimental and enjoy memory. It's a shame I am a bad storyteller.