but the thoughts are still churning their way through my stomach.
I know, a strange location for thoughts, right?
My throat feels tight and my chest feels heavy.
I don't know why I do this to myself.
Is it some primal need for...needing?
Or just some subconcious desire to feel pain?
Better question: why can't I just roll with it, why must it all be so dramatic?
Everything is not black and white, and I shouldn't expect it to be.
I pour myself into something and then smart at the first imagined hint of betrayal.
Feeling foolish for giving so much, when it wasn't really necessary.
What do I even gain from this?
THAT is the golden question.
Why do I do it?
the memory just rushed back to me, slamming against my briefly-closed lids with a crash-bang-thud.
I do it because something is missing.
I reach out through my keyboard, pulling back to myself shreds of beauty to try to patch together the small but significant holes in my own tapestry.
All I could think of last night was Lick Magazine.
That was a great outlet...
I wish it was still going.
I wish I wasn't so curious.
Even though I'm glad I'm so curious...
Curiosity led me to Nanowrimo, and to blogging.
Curiosity leads me to tears, sometimes, too.
I rail against the inside of my head, feeling helpless and foolish.
if I can just hold on long enough, just wait out the storm--
it's all ok.
Just have to wait for the voices to quiet, the suspicions to stumble back to their un-made beds, the doubts and self-doubts to resume their stasis...
Even just spewing this, here, makes me feel better.
It doesn't matter.
None of it matters.
I am naive about human nature, sometimes, and so I trust people fully.
And then, sometimes I realize--with a start, not unlike a thunderbolt landing dead center and pinning you to a tree--that it isn't wise to trust everyone.
The dust settles and reality comes scrambling back from its smoke break--
jesus, girl, I leave for ten minutes and you forget I even exist??
Reality is good.
Reality is more dynamic than it should be, given its nature.
It is amazing how well I can calm myself, simply by venting.
So...thanks for "listening".
Frankenstein: so far so good.
I read the first couple of chapters of my first attempt at a novel this morning.
I love that story...
I could probably make it readable with a few hundred hours of revision and rewriting, too.
I love reading it from such a distance--
when I first wrote it, I couldn't bear to cut anything or change anything,
because it was my BABY.
after 3 years of writing, I realize that there is a lot of crappy writing there.
I lot of...overly dramatic scenes, and way too many adverbs/adjectives.
I am ready to go in and clean house.
I am still impressed that I wrote so much,
(and that it was mostly passable)
after ten years of not writing anything.
I never considered my journals "writing", because they really used to be very simple recounting of my day--
which boy I smiled at between classes,
which boy I made laugh before cheer practice,
which boy I blushed and hurried away from when asked a simple question...
you get the idea:
boys, boys, BOYS.
I am happy now.
Especially because I went running.
god DAMN I love running.