the strangest things
I only worry about the little things.
I don't worry about being done up in full costumed regalia and prancing around the same building I work in with people who may eventually recognize me.
I don't worry about taking almost all of my male friends to see comic burlesque, which is awesome and hilarious.
I worry when I feel the need to pretend to be normal.
when I don't feel like explaining.
When I don't feel like I measure up.
There's another life out there that I'm not living and 80% of the time I'm happy about that. Often proud. How much can I do now because of what I DON'T do otherwise?
But I'm sensitive to what I see out of other people's eyes.
When it's within the parameters, I worry about what other people think.
I'm most comfortable beyond that, beyond the rules and expectations.
Is it because I was an only child? I had so much time to myself. So much time inside my own head.
I wasn't lonely, not until much later.
I was bored sometimes, but the inside of my head is endless.
Artists and writers would like the be hermits, some of us. But you can't live alone.
How irrational do I get when I'm tired and lonely?
I know the answer to that, and what it's cost me.
What happens when it all comes tumbling down.
And yet, there is an unchangeable fact:
there will never be time to write.
you have to make time.
So, what are you willing to give up?
~H
I don't worry about being done up in full costumed regalia and prancing around the same building I work in with people who may eventually recognize me.
I don't worry about taking almost all of my male friends to see comic burlesque, which is awesome and hilarious.
I worry when I feel the need to pretend to be normal.
when I don't feel like explaining.
When I don't feel like I measure up.
There's another life out there that I'm not living and 80% of the time I'm happy about that. Often proud. How much can I do now because of what I DON'T do otherwise?
But I'm sensitive to what I see out of other people's eyes.
When it's within the parameters, I worry about what other people think.
I'm most comfortable beyond that, beyond the rules and expectations.
Is it because I was an only child? I had so much time to myself. So much time inside my own head.
I wasn't lonely, not until much later.
I was bored sometimes, but the inside of my head is endless.
Artists and writers would like the be hermits, some of us. But you can't live alone.
How irrational do I get when I'm tired and lonely?
I know the answer to that, and what it's cost me.
What happens when it all comes tumbling down.
And yet, there is an unchangeable fact:
there will never be time to write.
you have to make time.
So, what are you willing to give up?
~H