Mark me up in this theater called life.

I haven’t met a blank page in a while. It’s intimidating. Cliché enough, I have no reason not to write and every reason to write. Here goes going.

Fuck you. Two incredibly charged words. But really, I’m living and breathing everything I want to fuck about you. I’m really anxious. I want to tear out the fantastic inside me and vomit it all over this page, but it’s just lingering, itching, I feel it and just can’t. I want it to flow, I want to create something I feel good about, something I obsess over and store away unfinished only to look at months, or even years later only to re-perfect it and realize how much I’ve grown in my writing between that time. I guess that’s one of the thrills about it, markers from one time to the next, details unspecific, but feelings charged.

I start my new job tomorrow. Couldn't have come at a better time. Things are starting to look up.

Allen Ginsberg

“It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.”

Our feelings have value and deserve to be heard... Doesn't mean it's them that is going to hear them.

I'm angry.
Nothing I say will sound poetic either.
I need to learn to let go, when I'm in it... Not after its manipulated me.
Let go to things before they're diluted.
I could have had a lot of greats... But I ruin that
I hold on until its smothered and dead.
I'm annoyed.
This is when I want to hibernate.
Lets count 1,2,3,4,5 - 6 months since the last time...
Do I sense a pattern?
What the fuck is happening here?
Will I be brought back to this mid December. Probably.
I need a change. I want a change.
I'm pathetic.
Pathetically accepting the "okay"
Dammit, it's not okay!
I'm not okay and I fear there is no turning back.
I'm that girl.
The one I laugh at.
Cry for.
Pity, even.
Yes, I have made myself that girl.
I'm out.

Working it out

I am in the process of independence. And it's about to come through in full effect on the 25th. Freedom here I come!