I think more than i should and that’s what’s stopping me…

I’ve been writing and then I’ve been stopping. Stop and go, stop and go. Stopping because I start to question what I’m writing instead of just feeling the words. So I’ve gotten scared to share and just been keeping it to myself. I’ve been writing to reach someone, anyone but I don’t feel that I am and then I question, does that even matter? When writing I set the intention to get lost and then doubt what I am doing. I don’t feel that my words are making sense and I am becoming overtly critical of my own art form. This is for me. Right ?I need to find a way to unblock and create again where I  feel comfortable, where i feel confident and secure in myself where I am OK with what I am creating. It’s a struggle. A mental struggle, a struggle where  I feel I am constantly fighting back the urge to run and hide, every single day. It’s exhausting and draining and trust me, I am tired. Lately it’s just been a routine effort  on my part to keep my head above water, I’m just doing what’s necessary to make it seem that I am staying afloat. Having to acknowledge that there are feelings of suffocation and deprivation and loneliness and just everything that shouldn’t be existing in my presence is just here and staying past their welcome. Maybe that’s where I screwed up? Once you acknowledge the feelings, you know you have to do something, right? That’s why I love denial. I can be anyone and feel anyway I want without ever having to re-examine the truth and what’s in front of me. How long does this last usually? Well there are people who are 50+ that seem to be working out just fine in my opinion. I can muster up another 22 yrs of this role.

I’m kidding.

But the point of the matter is I’m blocked. I’m backed up. I’m still pushing myself to write even though I suck. I have books and empty wine glasses all over the floor of my bedroom. Lolita has taken a fuckin turn for the worst and quite frankly, as sick as this book is, I am quite intrigued at how delicately written this story is. Nietzsche is still in the corner because I ain’t ready to be dealing with his ass and Anais, well I pick her up when I begin to feel hopeless in my situation. Hopeless being used for a more delicate term than bored.

I’ll keep writing. That much I will do. Everything else, well, I’ll just let it fall and wherever it lands I’ll deal with it later.

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