I have work tomorrow at 10AM and here I am sitting up, writing. I don't want to write. I do want to write, but not right now. But a true writer knows that when you have to write, you have to write, whether you want to or not. The writing takes on a life of its own, demanding to be written down. And disobey the writing and it abandons you.
I've been trying to train myself to write once a day, no matter how long, no matter how much. You'd think it'd be easier, but there's never really much to write about. Sure I could ramble about my day or talk about the stress of living under this roof. I could write about my broken heart, or how this person makes me feel, or how they don't make me feel. I could write out mindless, senseless thoughts, but I ask, what purpose would it serve? Does getting these thoughts written down do anything for me? There would be no sense of accomplishment because what is it that I would have to be proud of!? That I can write down what I'm thinking? The entire world could do that. Mostly...
I think I'm avoiding what I really want to write about. I can be good at avoidance. Trained myself real well with that. The words are there in my head, I can see them floating around. But I won't let them get out. I pretend that I don't know what I'd do with them, but it's just a defense mechanism. Or is it? I don't know.
There are flowers on my mattress. I haven't gotten around to putting the disgusing Dora the Explorer sheets back on it. I share a room with a six-year-old, spare me the laughter. It's funny, in the dark the designs don't even look like flowers. They look like claw marks. Something trying to escape the deadly mattress and it's springy evilness! Or maybe someone's trying to claw their way inside? Maybe it's me. Heh.
Well this post accomplished the one thing I said I didn't want - nothing! But that's me, contradiction walking.
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