Tomorrow is… next week. Oh shit.

OOPS! I kept up with this new ‘project’ for… *drum roll in my mind violently clashes with the Sigur Ros playing on Spotify*… TWO DAYS! I managed two whole days of writing and publishing in a row! Wow. And my explorations of my own feelings towards myself about achieving this? Well, I’m disappointingly shaking my head at myself with absolutely no trace of surprise and a very, slowly, dawning realisation that I’m probably not going to achieve all of those things I thought I would.

Is this a part of becoming older? I realise that fluffy dreams and giddy excitedness about huge childhood expectations of ourselves fade as we settle into reality and understand we’re lazy, and tired, and quite scared of too many things. Am I having a realisation? That I can’t even do the most simple of things. The bare minimum I expect from myself. How much does Netflix and chill get me compared to the excitement of publishing a piece of writing nobody will read, but, I’m happy I’ve written it anyway.

I’m one of those people who start to write in their heads as things happen. A diary I’m promising myself I will actually type down later, savouring the beautiful (I think) sentences that pour from me. Yet days later I have no idea what happened except I think I wrote a really good line to a poem at some point in the day but don’t quite know what it was about or any of the words involved.

Stifled. I want to write what’s raw and what’s there but writing what goes on with me ends up exposing others, and in the end will never be worth it. I want to write about my –

 

shard of tainted red glass. –

 

just sits in the car with bloodshot eyes as I wander –

 

with a basket that is too heavy and too full of sensible things. –

diving into it all but never feeling like enough is good enough. All of the time. Lists lists lists and there’s always at least one thing just not. crossed. through. At least one. I want to write about the tangles and the beauty of moments and about the first time I understood the team ‘hot tears’ because I saw them fall and hit, heavy and it broke everything to see that. The green hoody that became a hideout from pain I couldn’t fix and things we couldn’t say and the fact I am already looking for a new place to live and it is so terrifying. I’ve written about it but I will censor and cut and hide it away for only somebody who can guess my laptop password to read.

I want to go for walks, I want I want I want I want I want I want I want I want I want I want I want to want less because wanting more is destructive and selfish and very much not getting anything anywhere.
aaa

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1 Comment

  1. My love! I love your writing so much! if you ever wish to share it with anyone, share it with me; I will appreciate every word and sentence formed. I share the same struggle with you. How can so many re-watched episodes of friends be more grabbing, more attention binding than the joys of writing?

    I hate growing up sometimes.

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