Ramblings of the Written Kind: #2

Another piece dug out of the "drawer"...:

And it just hits you – this need to write and write and write because nothing comes out right when you say it and nothing seems so clear and honest as when you take that jump from heart and mind to page and ink.

I let the music on my stereo fill the room and even overpower some of my thoughts so that only the baer essentials from my brain drip through.

I feel bloated with emotion and energy – like I’m bursting at the seams with all these things that I want to do and see and experience, and yet life seems to get in the way. This city, this place, this experience of living has become some drollery of tedious cyclical momentum – energy building and building with no way to release itself into a wider arena than a life which presents itself as a room with no doors, no windows - only white-washed walls with no discernable physicality.

Sometimes I wish to just explode on the page with no idea as to what it is that I’m writing at all. I want to feel and express everything within, so much tied into such a small soul – in a way music does but with my own capabilities – of which music is not one. I used to think it was – but I am humbled by the greatness I come upon in others everyday. I do not have the voice of an angel, I do not have the fingers of a virtuoso, I do not have the perseverance of a struggling artist – I only have that deep inner want that drives talentless schmucks such as I into an oblivion of desperation with no way to actualize true fruition.

It would be one thing to write an actual story – something that could be read and understood and connected with an actual reader – but I have no cause to write such a tale – because there’s no real story to tell – no meaning to impart that I don’t believe hasn’t been told a million times.

And then, so it dies, this false sugar energy of mine disguised as actual ambition. Reality builds its brick wall in an instant and doubt and fear and listlessness pervade.

How fleeting inspiration is, and how I long for it to return.

Grating, annoying and persistent realization

It happens with every single blog, every single attempt - every little wish to release the pressure of the thoughts and words that are constantly building and storing and building and storing and eventually evaporating all within my head because of whatever laziness that it is that prevents me from just writing the oh-so-wonder-fucking-ful thoughts down!

Whoosh.

Always starts with an ever-lovely running, ranting, developmentally poor sentence.

It only took a day but I think the frustration and agony of looking at my life's accomplishments at 30 is beginning to settle in. I'm angry at myself - I can feel it - I know it. For all the things that I'm still dreaming about but not doing anything about.

About the precariousness of stability in my life, and the laziness that jabba-the-huts all over any possible change to the situation.

About still being unsure - still craving, wanting, needing, and not being satisfied.

I'm angry at all of it - and I'm just dying to not be angry anymore.