Repurpose
As I worked, I sorted my feelings through. Lack of sleep is still keeping me pretty immaculately focused; I really do think I have a mild case of manic sometimes. Hunger has been replaced with nauseous hatred; at myself, at what things have become, at my inability to fathom this scenario getting this bad. It has become another core inside me, a ball of hate that feeds my gut, nourishes me with anger at what has happened.
Yesterday I sent emails to two managers that I worked under asking if there was anything potentially opening up. No response, not from an email nor a phone. It was dumb of me to show weakness. The ball within continues to well.
I'm afraid of eating because of actual food replacing this frustration, placating it. I feel focused, despite being too tired to continue this temp position for the day, because I feel so much unbridled glibness ready to escape myself.
This is not a feeling I've had in awhile; the time when I was lost into my writer's whimsy and poured out creative stories one after the other. I feel the pain, and the need to resolve, resolve everything! The repression has finally made its backlash. I feel angry, and pained, and glorious.
I'm going through the half-finished draft of that screenplay, changed a few ideas, currently writing through a bit more of it as I look through it some more and reach for that darkness and extol the frustration before it peters out, before I find it replaced with the complacency that bottles my emotions everyday. I want to at least get somewhere. I want to see if it can guide me at least to a halfway point, to a point where the traditional angle of the story will appropriately tip the cataclysm close enough for me to know what must happen in order for the story to end.
Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.
Yesterday I sent emails to two managers that I worked under asking if there was anything potentially opening up. No response, not from an email nor a phone. It was dumb of me to show weakness. The ball within continues to well.
I'm afraid of eating because of actual food replacing this frustration, placating it. I feel focused, despite being too tired to continue this temp position for the day, because I feel so much unbridled glibness ready to escape myself.
This is not a feeling I've had in awhile; the time when I was lost into my writer's whimsy and poured out creative stories one after the other. I feel the pain, and the need to resolve, resolve everything! The repression has finally made its backlash. I feel angry, and pained, and glorious.
I'm going through the half-finished draft of that screenplay, changed a few ideas, currently writing through a bit more of it as I look through it some more and reach for that darkness and extol the frustration before it peters out, before I find it replaced with the complacency that bottles my emotions everyday. I want to at least get somewhere. I want to see if it can guide me at least to a halfway point, to a point where the traditional angle of the story will appropriately tip the cataclysm close enough for me to know what must happen in order for the story to end.
Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.