Night has always pushed up day.
The idea is easy to conceive. It’s the execution that always takes the most effort, the most strength, the most force. If force equals mass times acceleration (and it does), what mass does an idea have and at what rate must it accelerate to be real? It’s the execution that inspires anxiety and fear.
Necessity may drive things onward, but anxiety and fear impede action. Oh, Prufrock, you aren’t alone.
The reality of the matter is that it’s just one button.
Just one.
---
I want to write. I've wanted to write for so long, with all these feelings and all these words trapped and locked inside me, but I never knew if it would be okay to let them go. I think I always think that the world will shun them, and they won't have anywhere to stay, to call "home." I keep them here because I'm afraid, really.
Of all things that exist in this world, I fear emotions the most.
I took the words and put them in a cage. I built a maze around it and put up walls beyond that. I think I thought they'd be safe there inside me. And they are. The words are safe in that world I created for them, but they're poison in such dense concentration. Acidic. That's why they've begun to sear through all those layers of logic.
I said I hadn't been writing often lately because I didn't know who I was so as to know what to say. There's nothing more simple than who I am.
These are the things I'm not: someone else, a sum of my parts, a number.
This is who I am: me.
I think I've always known, or have known since I learned how to think for myself anyway. And since I've learned how to think for myself, I've always kept a journal or a notebook of some kind. Even unused, untouched, immaculate, I've always kept them - as an anchor to hold onto, to hide behind. I have a drawer of them now, none filled to the brim, some only a few pages deep, but every one of them filled with my words and my feelings. I said if the house was burning, I'd bring my notebooks. I mean it.
The words exist, the feelings real. The fort I've built around them is as useless and futile as a dam against torrents of water.
I know.
And somewhere out there, right now, a dam just cracked.
---
btw I so am not dead. I've been lurking forever, since my last post. Sometimes, I get overwhelmed with life and I tell myself that I can push it back for a little bit and get back to it later, but then when I have time, I get scared that maybe it's too late or something and then I just keep pushing it back, further and further. It's a strange but vicious cycle of emotional procrastination.
I was also pushed/coerced into making a tumblr. Actually, I have 2, one for RL friends that is SFW, one for me that isn't very SFW. Uh, some posts may or may not be repeats of what I post here and of what I post on the other tumblr. IDK. I cross post things.
So yes. Hello, there f-list. How've you been doing?
Necessity may drive things onward, but anxiety and fear impede action. Oh, Prufrock, you aren’t alone.
The reality of the matter is that it’s just one button.
Just one.
---
I want to write. I've wanted to write for so long, with all these feelings and all these words trapped and locked inside me, but I never knew if it would be okay to let them go. I think I always think that the world will shun them, and they won't have anywhere to stay, to call "home." I keep them here because I'm afraid, really.
Of all things that exist in this world, I fear emotions the most.
I took the words and put them in a cage. I built a maze around it and put up walls beyond that. I think I thought they'd be safe there inside me. And they are. The words are safe in that world I created for them, but they're poison in such dense concentration. Acidic. That's why they've begun to sear through all those layers of logic.
I said I hadn't been writing often lately because I didn't know who I was so as to know what to say. There's nothing more simple than who I am.
These are the things I'm not: someone else, a sum of my parts, a number.
This is who I am: me.
I think I've always known, or have known since I learned how to think for myself anyway. And since I've learned how to think for myself, I've always kept a journal or a notebook of some kind. Even unused, untouched, immaculate, I've always kept them - as an anchor to hold onto, to hide behind. I have a drawer of them now, none filled to the brim, some only a few pages deep, but every one of them filled with my words and my feelings. I said if the house was burning, I'd bring my notebooks. I mean it.
The words exist, the feelings real. The fort I've built around them is as useless and futile as a dam against torrents of water.
I know.
And somewhere out there, right now, a dam just cracked.
---
btw I so am not dead. I've been lurking forever, since my last post. Sometimes, I get overwhelmed with life and I tell myself that I can push it back for a little bit and get back to it later, but then when I have time, I get scared that maybe it's too late or something and then I just keep pushing it back, further and further. It's a strange but vicious cycle of emotional procrastination.
I was also pushed/coerced into making a tumblr. Actually, I have 2, one for RL friends that is SFW, one for me that isn't very SFW. Uh, some posts may or may not be repeats of what I post here and of what I post on the other tumblr. IDK. I cross post things.
So yes. Hello, there f-list. How've you been doing?