Ever let others talk for you? This is sort of like that.
Let's do a little self-searching and pretend for a moment that I know what I'm talking about.
What DO I even want to talk about?
I've been at a loss for words for months now, and I'm just waiting for it all to come pouring out in salty torrents and a jumble of words that make ANY sort of sense. This is writers block applied to life.
I wrote the worst essay of my entire post-secondary career last night (well, maybe not THE worst.. there was one a couple years ago that was about 4 pages too short.. but we won't talk about that). I'd like to say I did it on purpose, but my insides are squirming at the thought of the red ink that will be scribbled on the back page. It's not like it will mark my fate or anything, but jesus what I wouldn't do to NOT care? Makes me wonder how I'll feel by next week after writing two more. This won't be pretty, mark my words.
My damn words. I'm too tired to form proper thoughts. Lately I can't even find new music to enjoy because I'm too lazy to sit and form some sort of opinion.
But gosh am I bored.
Boredom should breed the opposite of stupidity, don't you think?
The frustration and pain of restrictions and anchors resonates through me this time of year. This year feels worse. Why is it that I must always be left out of something? How long can a soul be stretched thin, without tearing somewhere at the seams? April and August rip at me the most these days. It's disgusting to think of things that I have let go of secretly in my head. I will deny it all in a heartbeat, but when someone says 'home' I don't really know what to think.
If I cared a little less about what it means to others, I would be set. I care too much.
I should be more excited about my trip to Japan. Once school is over I'll probably be much MUCH more excited, but for now it's just another sort of home to add to my list. I just want to be too many places at once.
I'm letting my stress do most of the talking for me.
What DO I even want to talk about?
I've been at a loss for words for months now, and I'm just waiting for it all to come pouring out in salty torrents and a jumble of words that make ANY sort of sense. This is writers block applied to life.
I wrote the worst essay of my entire post-secondary career last night (well, maybe not THE worst.. there was one a couple years ago that was about 4 pages too short.. but we won't talk about that). I'd like to say I did it on purpose, but my insides are squirming at the thought of the red ink that will be scribbled on the back page. It's not like it will mark my fate or anything, but jesus what I wouldn't do to NOT care? Makes me wonder how I'll feel by next week after writing two more. This won't be pretty, mark my words.
My damn words. I'm too tired to form proper thoughts. Lately I can't even find new music to enjoy because I'm too lazy to sit and form some sort of opinion.
But gosh am I bored.
Boredom should breed the opposite of stupidity, don't you think?
The frustration and pain of restrictions and anchors resonates through me this time of year. This year feels worse. Why is it that I must always be left out of something? How long can a soul be stretched thin, without tearing somewhere at the seams? April and August rip at me the most these days. It's disgusting to think of things that I have let go of secretly in my head. I will deny it all in a heartbeat, but when someone says 'home' I don't really know what to think.
If I cared a little less about what it means to others, I would be set. I care too much.
I should be more excited about my trip to Japan. Once school is over I'll probably be much MUCH more excited, but for now it's just another sort of home to add to my list. I just want to be too many places at once.
I'm letting my stress do most of the talking for me.