We Can Build Me Stronger...Better...Faster...
Thinking...
Thinking...
And writing again. It feels good to write again. It's been a really long time, actually.
My thoughts were all mangled in my brain. They're slowly starting to unwind.
My decisions have been so brash and thoughtless since I started dating Brad and everything got really shiny and wonderful. I shut off all the valves to all the darker thoughts hoping that all the good that was starting up would keep it all stuffed down, but it turns out that's not exactly how it works. There's a disconnect for me in that. And writing...writing has always been the only way I can express myself without restriction. So I'm not really sure why I strayed away from it so.
But I'm going to finish this damn English degree. It's going to allow me to write a bunch of crap and start to hate writing again, but also give me an appreciation for words.
I've been thinking, and reading some shit lately... Depression. It manifests in the stifled creativity. And that's what's been happening with me. Me therapist and I, we would talk about my family and the stress and the anger that they caused me, but that wasn't the root of it. And thinking about it now, being stifled makes so much more sense. My creativity wasn't encouraged, and it's pointless to dwell on the past now. So I just have to pull together the strength to feel my own worth and be open about what's in my head. I'm still not sure I've found the proper outlet. Writing quells some of it. Drawing another part. Painting is relaxing. But there's still something missing. Music is there, but kind of out of focus.
But what I'm focusing on now is that it's all open-ended. For the past three years, the death hanging over everyone was really killing everything inside me. It put a time-stamp on my life that I never felt before. Suddenly, the clock was ticking and all me time was running out. I literally have been feeling like I am edging ever closer to death with every breath. And I'm not sure where that came from, but it's been dogging me incessantly. I can't shake it. So back to writing I came running. I started journaling. It's strange how being away from something like writing--it's not like riding a bike. Those first pages were just...crap. Just surface-level thoughts and the lighter details of my day. And then I dove into the emotions. Tore apart my brain and analyzed my thought process. Thirty pages later, the first poem I'd written in almost two years manifests itself. It sucks, but it's a start. And now... now the words are flowing more frequently. The inner monologue is back. That valve in my head that shuts off that hideous voice that narrates my brain has been opened, and I have to say, I've never been happier to have it back. The fluency of thought. The way my mind can move from one thought to another in a seamless fashion, and it can piece it all together coherently for the rest of my self to understand in beautiful words.
It's relieving. It comes at a price, however. My verbal communication sometimes suffers. But I think I have the tools I need now to mesh it all together very nicely. I'm a little more hopeful. I'm trying to take all the pain and the frustration and use to express things that I've been feeling for some time, but eloquently. It's time. It's time to stand up and move on. And it's taken me a really long time to realize that. It's taken me far too long to realize that. But I really underestimated how long it would take to feel okay again. The emotional process is nothing to fuck with. And the mind can do some nasty things to the psyche.
The world is big. It's bigger than anything I can fathom. And the universe--potentially endless. And the size and the magnitude of everything is a weight that I'm just beginning to understand what to do with. Existence. It all overwhelms me in ways I'm not prepared to deal with. But I think putting it on paper... I think seeing the words in front of me validates the enormity and makes it a small pill to swallow. Everyone lives. Everyone dies. The time between birth and death is an open-ended question and there's no right or wrong way. Society is just man's big idea. It's not a rule book. It's not a manual for life. I want something different than everyone else, and I'll get there. I'm not good with slow progression, but I'm working on. I'm building up my arsenal. And when I'm ready to explode, it's going to be catastrophically brilliant.
My long term life goal is to test the limits of my brain. To stretch it and smush it and make it feel and experience and create until it gives up. And when it's done, I'm done. And only when I've squeezed every last thought from it, will I allow it quit.
On that note, I'm going for a run.
I've started running again.
Thinking...
And writing again. It feels good to write again. It's been a really long time, actually.
My thoughts were all mangled in my brain. They're slowly starting to unwind.
My decisions have been so brash and thoughtless since I started dating Brad and everything got really shiny and wonderful. I shut off all the valves to all the darker thoughts hoping that all the good that was starting up would keep it all stuffed down, but it turns out that's not exactly how it works. There's a disconnect for me in that. And writing...writing has always been the only way I can express myself without restriction. So I'm not really sure why I strayed away from it so.
But I'm going to finish this damn English degree. It's going to allow me to write a bunch of crap and start to hate writing again, but also give me an appreciation for words.
I've been thinking, and reading some shit lately... Depression. It manifests in the stifled creativity. And that's what's been happening with me. Me therapist and I, we would talk about my family and the stress and the anger that they caused me, but that wasn't the root of it. And thinking about it now, being stifled makes so much more sense. My creativity wasn't encouraged, and it's pointless to dwell on the past now. So I just have to pull together the strength to feel my own worth and be open about what's in my head. I'm still not sure I've found the proper outlet. Writing quells some of it. Drawing another part. Painting is relaxing. But there's still something missing. Music is there, but kind of out of focus.
But what I'm focusing on now is that it's all open-ended. For the past three years, the death hanging over everyone was really killing everything inside me. It put a time-stamp on my life that I never felt before. Suddenly, the clock was ticking and all me time was running out. I literally have been feeling like I am edging ever closer to death with every breath. And I'm not sure where that came from, but it's been dogging me incessantly. I can't shake it. So back to writing I came running. I started journaling. It's strange how being away from something like writing--it's not like riding a bike. Those first pages were just...crap. Just surface-level thoughts and the lighter details of my day. And then I dove into the emotions. Tore apart my brain and analyzed my thought process. Thirty pages later, the first poem I'd written in almost two years manifests itself. It sucks, but it's a start. And now... now the words are flowing more frequently. The inner monologue is back. That valve in my head that shuts off that hideous voice that narrates my brain has been opened, and I have to say, I've never been happier to have it back. The fluency of thought. The way my mind can move from one thought to another in a seamless fashion, and it can piece it all together coherently for the rest of my self to understand in beautiful words.
It's relieving. It comes at a price, however. My verbal communication sometimes suffers. But I think I have the tools I need now to mesh it all together very nicely. I'm a little more hopeful. I'm trying to take all the pain and the frustration and use to express things that I've been feeling for some time, but eloquently. It's time. It's time to stand up and move on. And it's taken me a really long time to realize that. It's taken me far too long to realize that. But I really underestimated how long it would take to feel okay again. The emotional process is nothing to fuck with. And the mind can do some nasty things to the psyche.
The world is big. It's bigger than anything I can fathom. And the universe--potentially endless. And the size and the magnitude of everything is a weight that I'm just beginning to understand what to do with. Existence. It all overwhelms me in ways I'm not prepared to deal with. But I think putting it on paper... I think seeing the words in front of me validates the enormity and makes it a small pill to swallow. Everyone lives. Everyone dies. The time between birth and death is an open-ended question and there's no right or wrong way. Society is just man's big idea. It's not a rule book. It's not a manual for life. I want something different than everyone else, and I'll get there. I'm not good with slow progression, but I'm working on. I'm building up my arsenal. And when I'm ready to explode, it's going to be catastrophically brilliant.
My long term life goal is to test the limits of my brain. To stretch it and smush it and make it feel and experience and create until it gives up. And when it's done, I'm done. And only when I've squeezed every last thought from it, will I allow it quit.
On that note, I'm going for a run.
I've started running again.