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aguuIt's like an art dump, only more word-y. None of my usual stuff feels like me.
That feeling - when it seems like the entire world is busy grabbing success after success after success: and I'm stuck in a shed full of unfinished manuscripts and spells that just don't seem to work right, that just end with me feeling lethargic and half-dead. It's the feeling of wanting to sleep the days and nights through until everything solves itself. The feeling of mire and muck and all that shit trying to get out and I'm pushing it down, down into a corner so tight that nothing can ever get out, but it leaks and spills and all my disappointments and tears creep out.
It's spiders that form webs of blueberry silk woven into bags with a weak pulse in the center of my body.
A place where there's a dark corridor brimming with negativity and sleepiness and the source is a heavily chained, padlocked king that tells me that I have to write to win, and to win, one must start writing. It's a frightening monster of a king, a beast with spikes and eyes and legs and claws and long sharp teeth that smells of destruction and never-ending bloodlust and the need is always strongest. The need. Need to collect and create and destroy and rebuild and hate and love and kill. This is why I'm not allowed to hold the scissors, even if it is to create harmless paper dolls.
Nothing is ever just harmless with me. It can never be and it makes me feel so angry.
Angry that I'm small and weak and it makes me hold fast to the earth, the only thing that makes more sense than anything else. Angry at myself. Annoyed at everyone who feels that way towards me because they won't exert effort to get to know me and they choose to avoid me rather than speak and tell me what they really think. And that makes me extremely irritated and angry and tired...oh...so tired...
It's the feeling of soaking your bread into soup too salty to drink and yet out of pure need and desperation you drink and then look for an empty water tap to ease into; to breathe into - to make sense out of nothing. I just want something all my own. That makes sense to me. That I can call my own and make it strong and temper it and just make it all on my own.
It's made of the same stuff my rejected sketches and torn-up-pages and the disappointment of the mundy and the world is just grating on me.
I've never felt so much anger and hatred and it surprises me.
I just want to do something to make it all go away.
I want to finish my sketches, my drawings and my words--but I feel crippled and hobble around for more and find nothing.
I feel like my personal magical growth is stunted and whenever I try to get stronger I fail.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
That feeling - when it seems like the entire world is busy grabbing success after success after success: and I'm stuck in a shed full of unfinished manuscripts and spells that just don't seem to work right, that just end with me feeling lethargic and half-dead. It's the feeling of wanting to sleep the days and nights through until everything solves itself. The feeling of mire and muck and all that shit trying to get out and I'm pushing it down, down into a corner so tight that nothing can ever get out, but it leaks and spills and all my disappointments and tears creep out.
It's spiders that form webs of blueberry silk woven into bags with a weak pulse in the center of my body.
A place where there's a dark corridor brimming with negativity and sleepiness and the source is a heavily chained, padlocked king that tells me that I have to write to win, and to win, one must start writing. It's a frightening monster of a king, a beast with spikes and eyes and legs and claws and long sharp teeth that smells of destruction and never-ending bloodlust and the need is always strongest. The need. Need to collect and create and destroy and rebuild and hate and love and kill. This is why I'm not allowed to hold the scissors, even if it is to create harmless paper dolls.
Nothing is ever just harmless with me. It can never be and it makes me feel so angry.
Angry that I'm small and weak and it makes me hold fast to the earth, the only thing that makes more sense than anything else. Angry at myself. Annoyed at everyone who feels that way towards me because they won't exert effort to get to know me and they choose to avoid me rather than speak and tell me what they really think. And that makes me extremely irritated and angry and tired...oh...so tired...
It's the feeling of soaking your bread into soup too salty to drink and yet out of pure need and desperation you drink and then look for an empty water tap to ease into; to breathe into - to make sense out of nothing. I just want something all my own. That makes sense to me. That I can call my own and make it strong and temper it and just make it all on my own.
It's made of the same stuff my rejected sketches and torn-up-pages and the disappointment of the mundy and the world is just grating on me.
I've never felt so much anger and hatred and it surprises me.
I just want to do something to make it all go away.
I want to finish my sketches, my drawings and my words--but I feel crippled and hobble around for more and find nothing.
I feel like my personal magical growth is stunted and whenever I try to get stronger I fail.
I don't know what's wrong with me.
