I have a draft for a piece of writing that I’ve yet to re-write into proper completion. But I don’t have the confidence, and for this one in particular that is something I need.
Energy I grow and feel on in the inside
is Tremendously leaking in forced, jerking
shots of inconsistent thoughts and fickle excuses.
the Physical effect shows in my eyes and the
clench is felt in my stomach but either is nowhere as damaging
as the mental repetition of what held, and holds
I type my rubbish when I’m in bed and eyes are straining, I don’t know why. I kind of hate it, especially at times like these when I can’t sort through the messes in my mind and I’m trying to force my mind not to build stupid images of monsters in my room. I’m absurdly imaginative when it comes to scaring myself but the dullest person alive when I’m looking for ideas and actual good stories. I wish fear was a physical thing I could rip to pieces.
This is so frustrating.
If I admitted where I get my bursts of sudden inspiration (to be better with specifics) from, I’d be laughed at even more than I do now.
I don’t watch TV series-es(?) because I get too involved. I become part of it, the characters become my friends/enemies and sucks my soul into the fictional, much more exciting world.
When the dreaded time comes and a season ends, I miss them. I feel sad because I know they don’t miss me back.
‘Because it’s a bloody TV show Anna, you big freak.’ (Stuck on BBC’s Sherlock, my thoughts are narrated like an Englishman now)
Still, its the same sting of going unnoticed to the people you crave for.
I do realise my own madness, just to be clear.
Each day I grab another rung on the seemingly unending ladder of queer.
It is before I sleep that I miss you the most. An image that I’ve made familiar is of us lying in bed at the end of the day, talking if we like, or silently enjoying the presence.
Tonight I’d talk. Achingly, but freely. Of beautiful experiences with sour, personal effects. My thoughts and what I’d ponder on, and ponder with you as I share. Of the stupid little pricks of my more shallow side, and of how much importance I hold with; and from that, how it affects my judgment of myself.
My fear of the almost silence between God and myself, and jealousy to those blessed with an answered ear.
I long for something I am told that I shouldn’t-admiration. Painful to admit because it sounds shallow, even selfish. I beat myself up about it because I can’t figure what’s right. Whether it pushes me to be a better person, or pulls me down when I don’t recieve. Do I want to make people happy by what I do, or am I so insecure that I need a clear view of being wanted? Self-absorbed or inspirational? I’m getting these mad mixed up questions from a bloody tv show. Mad.
At night I am tired, vulnerable, and honest.
I run on impulse, spurts of idea and feeling running the energies of my day. I speak them out if I have an audience, I hold opinions with importance so that helps me prioritise although my judgement holds most of the weight in the final outcome.
Right now on this Tuesday night, I am
hoping for a reply to a job I applied to, its at the back of my mind but constantly there
cringing at every individually heard nag
painfully resisting the pull to clear my room, I will succumb after I bring Kola for a walk
feeling the strong urge to write, it has been a couple of days and the absence of composing a piece has become uncomfortable. I think this is good, I have momentum.
Smiling/Missing/Loving my best friend and my boyfriend
Going through decisional leaps I want to take in the near future
I’m giving in to the clearing, I can’t take it. The yearn to clean and neaten and clear is a physical ache in my stomach now I’ve just got to. Only after everything’s in place I can think straight. The mess on my table is felt like someone is repeatedly punching my stomach. Its also getting incredibly annoying that my whole family teases me so often insults are being used as a greeting, and more often than not crosses slightly to the offensive. I know you’re joking, but know when to stop.
CRAZY CLEANING LADY
Megan said she thinks my illustrations are cute. When we met yesterday I couldn’t come out with anything substantial, but I’m so glad she liked them!
There is an aching somewhere in my body and I can’t identify exactly where it is coming from. Its just there, like an insistant prod for attention from someone invisible with no arms, kinda just bumping into me. ‘Notice! Notice! Something’s wrong!’ Although, not as creepy as that sounded. I make weird, bad analogies. Time to sleep.
I hate it when I’m so prepared and determined to sleep early and then BOOM time disappears in half a second. Hello where have you gone you sneaky hours?
Re-uploading/fixing up annalisalikesolives, I acknowledge that I am reblogging myself, there’s no point in posting the same thing twice. Laziness reigns.
The exposure wasn’t intended, I absentmindedly opened the film latch intending to check the batteries, not my brightest moment.
Writing on pickles is really a more socially accepted way of talking to myself. So when I write these thoughtless, no point or meaning snippets of a paragraph, it really means I, at this moment do not have a living human being to unleash my thoughtless, no point or meaning snippets of verbal paragraphs on.
I try to make it more interesting with a noyaddayaddayaddanothing drawing at the top.
I have things to say, but its been getting more difficult to convey it in ways that I would be satisfied, quality-wise. Ends a lot in me heading down to the kitchen, residing in Hogwarts with some form of chocolate pleasing my tongue.