Is this the time? Is this the place?
I'm desperately in search of an outlet: somewhere to spew the poisons inside and free myself of the contagiousness, the cantankerousness, the vengeance, the illwill, the bad feelings.
I write for a living. My employment is based on regurgitation of facts that don't apply to me, the development of someone else's interests and the documentation of someone else's opinions. I need a place that's uniquely my own. I've tried journaling. I have four leather-bound notebooks to prove it, each covered in multi-colored inks and home to scrawlings from various days' energies. My passion and emotions line the insides, serving as posterity's reminder of which paths to avoid.
There are closeted thoughts shoved onto the shelves of my soul, collecting dust. Untouched, unkempt. There are feelings buried six feet beneath the surface of my heart, never to emerge without the proper motivation. There is a roomful of banter in my brain, making its tenants uncomfortable with each and every woeful word.
Six billion people inhabit this earth but I've never felt more alone than I do today.