Ink-stained fingers make me sad
I need to do something creative. I need to create beauty. But the story is...not blocked so much as stalled, worrying me a bit, but I won't freak out about it just yet.
So I pull out the crafty stuff and spend several hours lost in the smell of sharpies and glue and ink and I think, yeah this is it.
And then I fuck it up, like I feel like I'm fucking everything up these days, and the ink smears, and the pages stick together and what I thought was going to be beautiful, if a bit chaotic, turns to shit.
For some reason this makes me want to cry, as if the crying has been hovering there all day, waiting for the excuse to let loose. I know I'm not artsy. I know the journal modding is just a way to pass time and play with color and images. But I feel like I'm not doing it right. I don't look at it and think, oh pretty!, but instead see the smears where I didn't allow the ink to dry long enough or the places where it bled through, and I chastise myself for wasting paper. For even thinking I'm something I'm not.
And the crying thing bugs me. I'm going home in two days. I should be ecstatic. I get to see all the people (other than the Husband and Second Wife) who love me just as I am. Instead I feel nervous and agitated, my heart is clogging up my throat and I don't even want to go near a piece of paper or talk to anyone, or even attempt to leave comments or send emails for fear I will piss everyone off with my near-hysteria.
Welcome to my Sunday. It is not perfect.
So I pull out the crafty stuff and spend several hours lost in the smell of sharpies and glue and ink and I think, yeah this is it.
And then I fuck it up, like I feel like I'm fucking everything up these days, and the ink smears, and the pages stick together and what I thought was going to be beautiful, if a bit chaotic, turns to shit.
For some reason this makes me want to cry, as if the crying has been hovering there all day, waiting for the excuse to let loose. I know I'm not artsy. I know the journal modding is just a way to pass time and play with color and images. But I feel like I'm not doing it right. I don't look at it and think, oh pretty!, but instead see the smears where I didn't allow the ink to dry long enough or the places where it bled through, and I chastise myself for wasting paper. For even thinking I'm something I'm not.
And the crying thing bugs me. I'm going home in two days. I should be ecstatic. I get to see all the people (other than the Husband and Second Wife) who love me just as I am. Instead I feel nervous and agitated, my heart is clogging up my throat and I don't even want to go near a piece of paper or talk to anyone, or even attempt to leave comments or send emails for fear I will piss everyone off with my near-hysteria.
Welcome to my Sunday. It is not perfect.