SO CHIN UP AND WE'LL DROWN A LITTLE SLOWER

I’m lost in my own purpose.

I think I know why I haven’t written something for quite a while—I’m avoiding it. I know I keep saying that my journal is all filled out, but is that an excuse? Even if it is, it’s a pathetic one. I mean, I can write anywhere, but I didn’t, and all this time, I was avoiding it.

I’ve always loved reading about what others have to say—others’ journals, perhaps; someone else’s rage at 2 am, someone else’s thoughts about the little things, someone else’s metaphors for their emotions. I always find each one I read so beautiful. Their views on the world are so harmonious I can close my eyes and move my head to the hum of their feelings.

Due to all the poignant text I’ve absorbed, there arose a desire to be beautiful—for my emotions to be beautiful. And I don’t think I write down what I feel just so I don’t explode; I think I write them because I want to prove that my sentiments can simmer in its own beauty and vulnerability too. I get so frustrated when words don’t rhyme, when metaphors aren’t as deep as what I feel, when I can’t seem to fathom the right words. Writing what I feel became some sort of sick homework instead of my escape, and I even get to the point where I force myself to break just so the right words spill over me. I break myself down, pick up my broken pieces, then form some sort of beautiful crap, then leave it like that. Then I didn’t want to write anything anymore, because I’m not sure if it’s really coming from me, and because I didn’t want to tip myself over and shatter myself. It’s pointless. 

I just hope I can get back to the right track (if there is a right track), because all the words spinning in my head is starting to loosen my nuts and bolts; I’m losing my mind.

p.s.:  the original draft of this post (and some other touchy stuff) was written in this little scrap of paper, and I lost the paper. I think that means I should just live and let go—or that I’m just a messy girl and needs to store her papers properly.