(no subject)
I wrote an intro paragraph for Manny's first college lit. paper.
And it's back. That incessant need to write. It's back. It's back in full force. And the only problem is I don't have enough outlets to satiate it's hunger. But words. Words, words, words.
I may end up writing most of her papers this semester out of the sheer need to write something with purpose. lol
Must finish cleaning...
I am completely convinced that someone else lives in this room. I don't know how it happens, but I come back from the city and within a day--no, a couple hours--the room is a fallout zone. I can't even describe the destruction that takes place. Clothes. Shoes. Papers. Books. Paints and markers. I am perpetually unorganized, but I fake it really well. I have bins and drawers and a place for everything, and everything constantly jumping out of it's place and finding it's way to the floor. Pencils and erasers strewn across the desk. Paint brushes sitting in glasses of water for days. Canvas and sketchbooks scattered. Pens and notebooks. It's a disaster. But it's so...comforting.
And still, the unrelenting desire to make it neat again. Push and pull.
And then there are thoughts. So many thoughts. My head feels like an attic filled with twenty years of boxed up memories and, standing in front of them, watching the dust swirl through the light from the vent, I feel weak and tired. And no part of me wants to engage myself in the sorting. Cracking open the first box is the hardest part, and not knowing what I might find is the thing that pushes me back down the stairs to leave it for another rainy day--a day when I'll have the strength and insight to work through everything and make some sense of it all. The procrastination. But it's necessary. But...fuck!
I've learned that you can't run from emotions. You can't run from the shit that swirls around in your head. It will never go away until you face it head on. And that is something I haven't been mentally prepared to do. And I blame myself, obviously. But honestly, it's truly my fault. I shut myself off...from myself. The memories became too painful. The thoughts just brought tears. The thinking just pushed me deeper into something I was afraid I would never pull out of. So I turned it all off. I told myself to shut up, and suck it up, and I moved on in a direction I wasn't familiar with, but I left myself in the dark. I never bothered to open my eyes and realize how close I was to being able to turn around and climb back out. So close...
And it took a couple of years of...soul searching--if you can call it that. I think it was just a mess. But I'm gaining a perspective I couldn't have had before. I'm learning things through experience, and I'm gaining a sense of mental independence that I felt robbed of before. I'm coming to terms with life not being easy, not always being fun, and not always being consistent with the pictures we paint in our heads. But I've also learned the difference between having big dreams and having big ideas. And the thin ground between impossible and practical is something I think I can navigate now. I'm picking up all my tools, and I'm filling up on all the things I need, and in not time at all, I can explode. Not quite ready, but getting there. Heh. It's so simple after all.
And it's back. That incessant need to write. It's back. It's back in full force. And the only problem is I don't have enough outlets to satiate it's hunger. But words. Words, words, words.
I may end up writing most of her papers this semester out of the sheer need to write something with purpose. lol
Must finish cleaning...
I am completely convinced that someone else lives in this room. I don't know how it happens, but I come back from the city and within a day--no, a couple hours--the room is a fallout zone. I can't even describe the destruction that takes place. Clothes. Shoes. Papers. Books. Paints and markers. I am perpetually unorganized, but I fake it really well. I have bins and drawers and a place for everything, and everything constantly jumping out of it's place and finding it's way to the floor. Pencils and erasers strewn across the desk. Paint brushes sitting in glasses of water for days. Canvas and sketchbooks scattered. Pens and notebooks. It's a disaster. But it's so...comforting.
And still, the unrelenting desire to make it neat again. Push and pull.
And then there are thoughts. So many thoughts. My head feels like an attic filled with twenty years of boxed up memories and, standing in front of them, watching the dust swirl through the light from the vent, I feel weak and tired. And no part of me wants to engage myself in the sorting. Cracking open the first box is the hardest part, and not knowing what I might find is the thing that pushes me back down the stairs to leave it for another rainy day--a day when I'll have the strength and insight to work through everything and make some sense of it all. The procrastination. But it's necessary. But...fuck!
I've learned that you can't run from emotions. You can't run from the shit that swirls around in your head. It will never go away until you face it head on. And that is something I haven't been mentally prepared to do. And I blame myself, obviously. But honestly, it's truly my fault. I shut myself off...from myself. The memories became too painful. The thoughts just brought tears. The thinking just pushed me deeper into something I was afraid I would never pull out of. So I turned it all off. I told myself to shut up, and suck it up, and I moved on in a direction I wasn't familiar with, but I left myself in the dark. I never bothered to open my eyes and realize how close I was to being able to turn around and climb back out. So close...
And it took a couple of years of...soul searching--if you can call it that. I think it was just a mess. But I'm gaining a perspective I couldn't have had before. I'm learning things through experience, and I'm gaining a sense of mental independence that I felt robbed of before. I'm coming to terms with life not being easy, not always being fun, and not always being consistent with the pictures we paint in our heads. But I've also learned the difference between having big dreams and having big ideas. And the thin ground between impossible and practical is something I think I can navigate now. I'm picking up all my tools, and I'm filling up on all the things I need, and in not time at all, I can explode. Not quite ready, but getting there. Heh. It's so simple after all.