Thursday, April 14, 2011

Fame like hollywood.
Gossip like Cornwall.
Egos like butterfly wings.

Jig saws.

The first passion I ever took upon was writing so why can't I write. Why can't I imagine up these little vivid worlds and color a paper with words anymore? I couldn't draw with crayons so I began to draw with words. Now I can't do either. Why do I crumble so easy under pressure. Why can't I spit out a poem or two in a day like I used to. Why can't I spend a day drawing like I used to. I used to be able to do everything with ease when I was young. Now everything is a struggle. Why do I always whine so much. I can't wait for the days when this is all done, and I am happy with life again. I'm sick of redundancy. I'm sick of feeling so isolated amongst a pool of personalities that constantly come and go. I just want stability again. I want real people. This city is too big to be too small. It's too busy because it's too small. A big city is so busy that I can just relax. Relax with the handful I know. The handful that I will see everyday and trust like fam. You just can't do that in a place where you know everybody, not in one that's too big, yet too small. Maybe you can, but I just don't know how, and I just don't fit any of these puzzle peices.

Shut doors.

Part of me is scared to research and write an essay on Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. It'll make me explore a part of my mind that I'd rather not go spelunking into.