It's Raining, It's Pouring

They're living. They're breathing. It's becoming more. And more, and more! I'm sorry for the gratuitous punctuation, but... I'm having a moment here. I feel like Niagara Falls, you feel?

Reaching out to some artists that I admire has been... inspiring.

 

and the animals i've trapped have all become my pets

I apologize in advance for my excessive questioning, because I'm about to dump some more on the pile of unanswered internal queries. And if I were smarter, I would pay more attention to the word 'internal' and stop saddling the interwebs with my pitiful little musings. But I'm not smart, and I like torturing myself. Plus, maybe one day this will be all that's left of me. How sad is that?

Planning two things at once. Which will win out in the end? Both feel like a conclusion, and both would change everything. Each one cancels out the possibility of the other. One is easy, one is difficult. I'm speaking in riddles and circles because I have to. That is probably really annoying, right? My anonymity should be enough to give me the freedom to speak (type) freely. But I'll never feel free. My nature won't let me. Existence is a roadblock in the way of that particular prize.

I chose a theme. I say 'chose' loosely, since I really had an epiphany about myself which I realized also applies to what is increasingly becoming my alter ego. So the theme is that all of these sad kids, affected by the different tragedies life has to offer, never gave anyone the chance to love them. One is a liar, one is a whore, one is a criminal, and one is a runner. I'll let you guess which one I am.

I'm inside my head so much. I find my patience to be non-existent, and I loathe having to claw myself out when I'm interrupted only to need at least a day to find my way back in. I know I'm still battling writer's block, but I'm appreciating it right now because it feels more like a defense mechanism. I'm paring things down, trimming the fat and digging deeper, but in a focused way, finally. It's hard for me to intimate these thoughts, I know I must sound like a broken record. It feels like a process with many stages. That's all I've got.

But I'm finding it harder and harder to have faith in the process. My other road is so much easier. How can I describe this one? When I close my eyes and think of it, I feel a swelling sense of wellness in my chest. I've described it as an inevitability, and this only strengthens that notion. Am I just using writing as an avoidance mechanism? I prefer to think that's my sane alter ego, Inner Me, trying to fix what's probably too broken for repair.

Inside This Cave Is Where I Live

As soon as I thought the words in my head, I knew them to be true. 'You can't re-write history'. Nope. It's an impossibility. Is that what I've been trying to do? To live vicariously? To change my past and my future?

I refuse to believe it's as simple as that. That my ambitions are only cover-up for my longings. No. Like I said, it's not that simple. It's more than that. It has to be.

My brain tells me that it's more. My brain says it's something close to passion. That I admire what I long for, and so can't help but desire that sameness. But still, and I hate to broken record here, it's not that simple.

Which came first, chicken or egg? Or, in my case, desire or admiration? Do I admire them as a result of my envy? Or do I envy them for achieving what I cannot? Both. Of course and always.

I Can't Quit You Baby

I've been very reflective lately. This urge I've got, to put my feelings to page, rather than a story, is exhausting. I'm wrestling every day with how much is too much. There is so much I want from this. So much it feels like I need. And the doubt is excruciating. Especially considering my latest mudslide. Sometimes the need seems physical. Like, I get so keyed up that I vibrate with it.

When I was very young, 3 I think, I remember driving my mother nuts one day with my need. I would write strings of letters down, run to her on the couch, and ask her what they said. And she would sigh, replying, "Nothing." Undeterred, I would run (always running) back to my room, write another "sentence", and repeat the process. This seems significant somehow.

I can feel it. I swear I can. The inevitability of it seems real, I guess. That's the only way I know how to describe it, and the farthest I'm willing to go in regards to commitment. But there's that other inevitability, the one I really can't describe, warring with it. If I could elaborate, I might. Probably not. But I can't, so it's a moot point.

Sabotage

Have I become too clinical? Has my meticulous planning resulted in a disconnect, instead of the intended 'detailed fiction'? I mean, don't get me wrong. It's detailed, all right. I know my character inside and out now. But that's my whole point. Are they strangers now that I know them so well?

I've tried very hard to maintain a sense of the things I know with my protagonists - their quirks and psychological defects. I'm a sucker for those. And my favorite writers have always demonstrated a clear favoritism for their own lives. Irving's penchant for writing about prep school wrestlers makes me want to roll my eyes, but that would be hypocritical. Instead I choose to applaud him for it. He's talented, the bastard. He reaches inside his characters and pulls out their guts, pinning it to the page for all of us to get a good look at. I want that. I want to know how much of them are real.

But for my own writing, for now, I'll settle for something even remotely organic. I'm struggling at this point to avoid manufactured shit - it's so difficult. How can I write what I don't understand, though? And why did going so deep result in such confusion? I can barely keep track of everything now. And fuck if I'm not panicking just writing this. It's a fine summation of my inexperience, I'm sure.

Quicksand

What a tangled web I'm weaving. And what's it worth? If I finish, the world, I guess. It's worth the world. Rick said it's my passion, which of course resonated with me, because it was flattering. Naturally. I try not to let the bothersome stuff resonate. But of course the shitty stuff that does is the very worst, and makes me feel so small. I don't want to feel small with my creative output. I want to soar. I want to fly above the others. And there's that voice inside me, insisting, sneering rather, that it isn't going to happen. And that makes me angry. With myself. I'd be black and blue if I slapped myself as often as I should.

Starting Fresh

I am a writer. I am. There is a passion. A want. A need to excel. An anger with myself for not achieving perfect heights. This is how I know that I'm a writer. And now I shall go and write.

The Ship Has Lost Its Sail

I loved you. There were so many of us who did. You knew it, too. But still, tonight, I might have realized how weak you were. I was too selfish to ever do more than think about you. I wanted to help you. Your struggles devastated me. You were my same once, weren't you? Didn't we trip acid together and go on the Danger Run? Didn't Rory throw our orange juice out the window after we giggled like maniacs and sneaked it into the backseat with us? We almost got shot that night. Jesus it was all so fun. And then we went home, came down, and had that very meaningful conversation about a pink pen. And Thooey's Auto Shop? Daniel Johns? How much you adored him? I'll never forget the photo booth, either. You looked best with red hair, you know. Every color under the sun, that was your modus operandi. But fire engine red. That was it. You were so beautiful. If you hadn't gotten lost I probably would have eventually called you Raphaelite. Your smile was radiant. You knew, but it didn't beam because of any effort on your part. You shone. As cliched as it may sound, the moth to flame reference comes to mind. I miss you. So much. I never stopped. What will I do now? When I come across your photo? I looked for them tonight. I can't find them anywhere. I'm terrible about organizing and forgetting. I'll find it before the funeral, I promise. And I'll send you the most beautiful, bright, perfectly lush bouquet. Your life was beautiful. It was. And you never believed that you could have anything. You could've. I promise. Everything. I'll never blame you, I can't justify it. They never loved you enough. And I don't know if I'll ever forgive the rest of us.

They should have seen you
Should have known you
Should have known
What it was like to be you

And now, if I still include you in my work, will you be the same? Will you be radiant? Will you be as sad and gritty and still so shiny and all fireworks and laughs? Or will you be peripheral? Will you be too painful? Will you be cold and gray? Still and quiet? I won't. Ever. Forgive us.

So come on, kid
Look at what you did
I don't know if you meant it
But you did yourself in
And I was even having a good day
When I found out we'd lost you