Selective Writer's Block
Sucks ass.
So Jaceyju's fic is currently about halfway done, and I can't seem to finish it yet X.X
So instead, I wrote a random rant (not true, even though it's in first person XD) to try to get the writer's block to go away.
It worked for the rant but not for the fic D: but hopefully that'll go away soon. I have till the 17th, after all >:D
It is late. It’s late and I’m tired, and know that although I should go to sleep, it just isn’t in the cards for the night. Again. So instead I just click around aimlessly on random webpages as if there is something I still need to do.
There isn’t.
That is, if you don’t count the whole, sleeping thing.
Which I rarely do.
I’m sad to say I don’t have insomnia. I don’t have a fear of the dark, nor do I have an annoying roommate who keeps me up with snoring or other various activities. I have no real legitimate reason not to sleep. And every cup of coffee I drink, every time I have find myself fighting with unconsciousness behind the wheel, every time I even fucking close my eyes, I wonder why.
Why don’t I sleep?
There are nights I decide to be productive. And by productive, I mean I’ll plan out what I’ll do next time I have time to try. One night I planned out my entire college career as a computer science major, complete with bookmarking self-help sites for hacking that I knew I would never look at again.
And I haven’t.
No, I don’t get any work done even when I’m trying to. Instead I sit on the computer, clicking on random links until something catches my eye.
Just the other night, I came across (don’t ask me how, I’m not even sure) a site talking about polyphasic sleep. Apparently, I could train myself to live off of only 2 to 3 hours of sleep every 24 hour period, if I wanted.
I currently run on approximately 4 hours a day, and I can swear every hour I miss takes two years off my lifetime. So excuse me for being skeptical, but I’m pretty sure polyphasic sleep would have me dead in a week.
Which, surprisingly, isn’t very appealing.
No. What is appealing is being able to nod off without seizing awake twenty minutes later. What is appealing is seeing nothing but black when I close my eyes-thinking absolutely nothing between the time when my head hits the pillow at night to when my feet hit the floor the next day.
Unfortunately, I seem to be attracted to impossible things. What little sleep I get is broken, fragmented by nightmares macabre enough to make the biggest horror buff cringe.
Some nights are better than others, though. In fact, I remember a time when my dreams were filled with deaths of people I didn’t know; didn’t care about. A time when someone’s torture couldn’t tear a scream from my throat because I simply didn’t care.
Fuck, sometimes I even liked it-if I hated the person enough.
But that was back when I knew almost no one. I was miserable all the time; kept to myself. People were worth nothing and how long they breathed or the way they stopped doing so was of no importance to me. Sure, I’d have liked to not see it every night but at least I wasn’t emotionally attached.
I’m not sure how it happened, but eventually I made friends. I wasn’t trying to-it was like I just looked up one day and there they were. I could smile and laugh and know others were doing the same. I could drive safely knowing someone gave a shit if I crashed. I could force myself to sleep so I wouldn’t be too tired to see them in the morning.
Then the nightmares got worse.
It’s funny, I guess, in some sadistic cruel let’s-see-how-much-we-can-make-her-life-suck kind of way, how the happier I am the worse my dreams become. The stories don’t change-the stories never change-but the leading roles became filled by the people who mattered most.
People say dreams are just dreams. Does the same apply for nightmares? Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve made me lose my voice on more than one occasion. Or maybe because I’ve woken up with a black eye, cracked rib-hell, even a concussion (I didn’t know you could wake up with one, I’ll admit I was a little impressed) all because I was scared by what I saw in my head.
Dreams may just be dreams but fuck man, nightmares are dangerous.
And so I don’t sleep. Much. And most days it’s okay-I can see my friends smile, and block out images of them without a jaw. I can listen to them laugh without hearing screaming, and say goodbye with reasonable assuredness that they will still be around when I wake up the next day.
Other times I’m not so lucky. Other times are like right now, where I’m too afraid of what I saw the night before to even contemplate seeing what’s to come this time.
I should probably see a psychologist. Maybe they could help me to shut my imagination up. But to be honest I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to explain how my friends are always in pain, and how terrifying it is to see all the different ways I can think up for how they die. I’m afraid of what the therapist would say if I told them it always ends in bloodshed, that it always has, for as long as I can remember. I’m afraid of what they would think of a girl who can only dream of her friends dying.
But most of all, I’m afraid of what they would think to discover that it was me; the one who’s so torn apart to see them go. I’m the one who kills them.
Every night, every time.
So Jaceyju's fic is currently about halfway done, and I can't seem to finish it yet X.X
So instead, I wrote a random rant (not true, even though it's in first person XD) to try to get the writer's block to go away.
It worked for the rant but not for the fic D: but hopefully that'll go away soon. I have till the 17th, after all >:D
It is late. It’s late and I’m tired, and know that although I should go to sleep, it just isn’t in the cards for the night. Again. So instead I just click around aimlessly on random webpages as if there is something I still need to do.
There isn’t.
That is, if you don’t count the whole, sleeping thing.
Which I rarely do.
I’m sad to say I don’t have insomnia. I don’t have a fear of the dark, nor do I have an annoying roommate who keeps me up with snoring or other various activities. I have no real legitimate reason not to sleep. And every cup of coffee I drink, every time I have find myself fighting with unconsciousness behind the wheel, every time I even fucking close my eyes, I wonder why.
Why don’t I sleep?
There are nights I decide to be productive. And by productive, I mean I’ll plan out what I’ll do next time I have time to try. One night I planned out my entire college career as a computer science major, complete with bookmarking self-help sites for hacking that I knew I would never look at again.
And I haven’t.
No, I don’t get any work done even when I’m trying to. Instead I sit on the computer, clicking on random links until something catches my eye.
Just the other night, I came across (don’t ask me how, I’m not even sure) a site talking about polyphasic sleep. Apparently, I could train myself to live off of only 2 to 3 hours of sleep every 24 hour period, if I wanted.
I currently run on approximately 4 hours a day, and I can swear every hour I miss takes two years off my lifetime. So excuse me for being skeptical, but I’m pretty sure polyphasic sleep would have me dead in a week.
Which, surprisingly, isn’t very appealing.
No. What is appealing is being able to nod off without seizing awake twenty minutes later. What is appealing is seeing nothing but black when I close my eyes-thinking absolutely nothing between the time when my head hits the pillow at night to when my feet hit the floor the next day.
Unfortunately, I seem to be attracted to impossible things. What little sleep I get is broken, fragmented by nightmares macabre enough to make the biggest horror buff cringe.
Some nights are better than others, though. In fact, I remember a time when my dreams were filled with deaths of people I didn’t know; didn’t care about. A time when someone’s torture couldn’t tear a scream from my throat because I simply didn’t care.
Fuck, sometimes I even liked it-if I hated the person enough.
But that was back when I knew almost no one. I was miserable all the time; kept to myself. People were worth nothing and how long they breathed or the way they stopped doing so was of no importance to me. Sure, I’d have liked to not see it every night but at least I wasn’t emotionally attached.
I’m not sure how it happened, but eventually I made friends. I wasn’t trying to-it was like I just looked up one day and there they were. I could smile and laugh and know others were doing the same. I could drive safely knowing someone gave a shit if I crashed. I could force myself to sleep so I wouldn’t be too tired to see them in the morning.
Then the nightmares got worse.
It’s funny, I guess, in some sadistic cruel let’s-see-how-much-we-can-make-her-life-suck kind of way, how the happier I am the worse my dreams become. The stories don’t change-the stories never change-but the leading roles became filled by the people who mattered most.
People say dreams are just dreams. Does the same apply for nightmares? Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve made me lose my voice on more than one occasion. Or maybe because I’ve woken up with a black eye, cracked rib-hell, even a concussion (I didn’t know you could wake up with one, I’ll admit I was a little impressed) all because I was scared by what I saw in my head.
Dreams may just be dreams but fuck man, nightmares are dangerous.
And so I don’t sleep. Much. And most days it’s okay-I can see my friends smile, and block out images of them without a jaw. I can listen to them laugh without hearing screaming, and say goodbye with reasonable assuredness that they will still be around when I wake up the next day.
Other times I’m not so lucky. Other times are like right now, where I’m too afraid of what I saw the night before to even contemplate seeing what’s to come this time.
I should probably see a psychologist. Maybe they could help me to shut my imagination up. But to be honest I’m afraid to. I’m afraid to explain how my friends are always in pain, and how terrifying it is to see all the different ways I can think up for how they die. I’m afraid of what the therapist would say if I told them it always ends in bloodshed, that it always has, for as long as I can remember. I’m afraid of what they would think of a girl who can only dream of her friends dying.
But most of all, I’m afraid of what they would think to discover that it was me; the one who’s so torn apart to see them go. I’m the one who kills them.
Every night, every time.