(no subject)
ok so i have noticed something lately,
lately i have lost my creative outlet. when i say that i mean, with work, and family, and money, and everything else,
everything just seems to be stacking up against me time after time, and i have no way to let it out, i bottle up so much i think it might be the death of me, then i let it out all at once and at people i never intend to hurt, and this is made occasionally worse when mixed with drunken rage.
before i moved would write about everything, and anything. fantasy was my tool, reality was nothing more than a weak perception. i would create stories that would tantalize even the weakest of imaginations, or darken even the lightest of personalities.
life was nothing more than material used for an even better story, life was at my feet. the only rules were the ones set by and endless imagination and enforced by an even less stronger will.
now the wall i have hit, i moved out and i can't seem to find the words to put down on paper anymore, i start to write and then after the 1st few lines i have nothing, i would normally chalk this up to writers block and try again in a few days, but i have had writers block for months now.
hence why i have been so short lately, and i don't intend to, but it all just wells up inside me for days and then i bursts. i think if it weren't for lifting with tim every other day, i would be more worse off then even I could imagine
lately i have lost my creative outlet. when i say that i mean, with work, and family, and money, and everything else,
everything just seems to be stacking up against me time after time, and i have no way to let it out, i bottle up so much i think it might be the death of me, then i let it out all at once and at people i never intend to hurt, and this is made occasionally worse when mixed with drunken rage.
before i moved would write about everything, and anything. fantasy was my tool, reality was nothing more than a weak perception. i would create stories that would tantalize even the weakest of imaginations, or darken even the lightest of personalities.
life was nothing more than material used for an even better story, life was at my feet. the only rules were the ones set by and endless imagination and enforced by an even less stronger will.
now the wall i have hit, i moved out and i can't seem to find the words to put down on paper anymore, i start to write and then after the 1st few lines i have nothing, i would normally chalk this up to writers block and try again in a few days, but i have had writers block for months now.
hence why i have been so short lately, and i don't intend to, but it all just wells up inside me for days and then i bursts. i think if it weren't for lifting with tim every other day, i would be more worse off then even I could imagine