Something to Think About
As of now.
I don’t know how I feel about anything, ever. Maybe I’m just a hormonal mess, which is the usual excuse for odd behaviour on my behalf. Or it could be how thrown off I was. Today was awfully bloody. Morning nosebleeds are the worst. Summer forces me to sleep next to a box of tissues. No other reason to wake up at 6.
I honestly can’t even think of what to type. Imagine if I typed without correcting my errors. You’d see a lot of mixed up letters and weird spaced out shit. I don’t even know how it’d be legible. I intend to type something, and then I come out with whatever is on my subconscious, even if it’s completely irrelevant.
Anonymity is a pain in the batoot sometimes. Summer has slowed me down, diminished me to a boring pile of inadequacy. But apparently there are people out there looking at my story, at my life. People listening. And now I’m curious to know who these brave souls are. Who in their right mind would take a liking to a story like mine. So far there are 24 chapters of absolute incoherence, no, more like inconsistency. 24 chapters of thoughts, questions, and on occasion, answers.
I’ve never been one for continuity, tradition, etc. I show interest in one, move on to the next, get on get up get out kind of person. But I can never stick with anything for long. Writing however, no matter how scattered and spaced my writing sprees are, has been a constant. I break off of ideas though, stop writing about this, lose interest in that. It’s a very picky, selective thought process. I usually take a spur-of-the-moment thought and expand it to 10 paragraphs and a venn diagram attempting to map out my methods. But I never know how I feel.
I am a ball of “I don’t know”. I’m sitting here listening to music. And I don’t know. I’m a kid, I don’t know anything. And I know I’m not supposed to, but I feel like I should know more than I do.
My book is open ended as of now.
I’m a good number of pages in, and I’m sitting here with a blank page.
Sitting here with writer’s block.
It feels like a dead end, but I know the door isn’t locked, just stuck.
Just really fucking jammed.
I honestly can’t even think of what to type. Imagine if I typed without correcting my errors. You’d see a lot of mixed up letters and weird spaced out shit. I don’t even know how it’d be legible. I intend to type something, and then I come out with whatever is on my subconscious, even if it’s completely irrelevant.
Anonymity is a pain in the batoot sometimes. Summer has slowed me down, diminished me to a boring pile of inadequacy. But apparently there are people out there looking at my story, at my life. People listening. And now I’m curious to know who these brave souls are. Who in their right mind would take a liking to a story like mine. So far there are 24 chapters of absolute incoherence, no, more like inconsistency. 24 chapters of thoughts, questions, and on occasion, answers.
I’ve never been one for continuity, tradition, etc. I show interest in one, move on to the next, get on get up get out kind of person. But I can never stick with anything for long. Writing however, no matter how scattered and spaced my writing sprees are, has been a constant. I break off of ideas though, stop writing about this, lose interest in that. It’s a very picky, selective thought process. I usually take a spur-of-the-moment thought and expand it to 10 paragraphs and a venn diagram attempting to map out my methods. But I never know how I feel.
I am a ball of “I don’t know”. I’m sitting here listening to music. And I don’t know. I’m a kid, I don’t know anything. And I know I’m not supposed to, but I feel like I should know more than I do.
My book is open ended as of now.
I’m a good number of pages in, and I’m sitting here with a blank page.
Sitting here with writer’s block.
It feels like a dead end, but I know the door isn’t locked, just stuck.
Just really fucking jammed.
♠ ♠ ♠
I don't know.