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The excitement. The joy. I think I will go through my journal in order to rehash the past nine days to keep these entries appropriate, for lack of a better word. I may very well do that for December too. Though, if I had use of my microsoft word files I am fairly certain that I could obtain entries I already wrote. I don't know why I stopped. I should have still wrote them everyday. Silly me. But it doesn't feel like cheating if I use my journal writings to write them. I just hope this apparatus counts words right.
My dog taught me an important lesson during a nighttime walk. He showed me that it's alright to sometimes be afraid of your own shadow because things look differently at night.
I'm entering deep mourning for my laptop. It is currently rendered useless as the cord is no longer supplying power. It's not the cord though, it's the laptop. I saved all my msword files and couldn't think of anything else worthy of saving. I told the company about the flicker in the screen, they're gonna check it out and there's a chance I may lose my hard drive.
Captured an amazing picture of my dog. It's him saying
I know I'm not perfect, but with a face like this you have to love me anyways.
And it's true too
I'm anxious for school to start again. School gives me a purpose
I got floor seats to another My Chemical Romance show on February 22nd, two hours away. It's worth it
I'm canceling my birthday this year, and all the years to follow
I think I'm starting to dream about my dad again, but I don't remember them strongly enough to believe it
Sorry no periods after paragraphs.
A new medicine prescribed by my lovely doctor has succeeded in greatly decreasing my depression which has ultimately led to a dangerous lack of writing. And this is only the beginning. I'm afraid, but wonder if not writing will depress me enough to write. The absent writing could be my, ironically desired, anchor to depression.
I miss cycling. I miss my laptop. I miss microsoft word. I've been using our new, and very convenient right now, desktop computer. Haven't yet acquired a copy of msword to install here. I'm suffering without it.
I really did write a damn good book.
I hold a fiery passionate love for bookstores. On the way home from there I developed this incessant need to write while remaining fully aware of my gross inability to do so due to the severe absence of creativity. I attribute this lack to other lacks in my life: laptop, msword, school and depression. I strangely miss and yearn for that deep burning hurt of the blackest depression.
I'm crazy, I know.
I possess in me not a single short story or crappy poem, but yet I feel on the verge of beginning my novels sequel.
I like Erik Erikson.
496 words written toward the sequels first chapter. Damn straight. And it's good. I'm starting to think out some details. Specifically subplot(s). When I started the last book I had no idea if I would be capable of doing it, I was filled with doubts and second thoughts. That time, I just knew I had a story. This time, I go into it knowing I am capable, but feeling unsure of the story. I do know that it will not be about death, just as the other one was not. Death is only a stigma that hangs over there heads.
Today my grandmother turns 80 and we had a big birthday party for her. I suspect we've added some years to her life by making her so happy. I also suspect that this medicine has changed my entire persona. it's changed me for the better, but still I do not like it and I am not comfortable in this. I have no idea who I am. I know who I was, and technically that feels like who I am, therefore who I am right now is not really who I am. It's all very complicated. But a change for sure.
Shipped my laptop out this morning. I delayed to wait for a Monday send off to ensure it wouldn't be sitting somewhere on a Sunday. Logic. But I feel sad, like sending a child to summer camp. I wish my laptop the best of luck out there in the cruel world.
Still been thinking a lot about the story, but haven't written anything. It's okay. There is no real rush. It's better to wait until I have a deeper grasp of the story.
Yesterday some girl lost her dog, she had the panicked looking face, I felt bad for her.
My English professor had suggested I read Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. It makes me happy when someone recommends a book to me that actually turns out to be an amazing book and totally fit for my personality. It's like he really knew me or something, and just knew I would love this book. Of course, in my over analytical way I am trying to decipher his exact intentions behind suggesting it in reference to my mention of wanting to write my Great American Novel. I suspect that reaching the end of the novel may bring about my final conclusion.
I enjoy quiet mornings alone in which my deepest contemplation is that of belly buttons. I have healed, finally, from the horrors of death. I miss him intensely, but that, I would think, is real normal. It would be not normal if I didn't miss him, right? Not that it matters. I miss him and belly buttons are intriguing.
It was a lie when they smiled and said you won't feel a thing.
I dreamt a lot last night about my upcoming math class. Math anxiety. But having two psychology classes will ease my turmoil, I hope. I love school.
I have such bad heartburn that it's actually making me sweat. Is that normal? I never get heartburn. I haven't even eaten anything. It's making me feel sick. It hurts near my heart and reminds of lingering heartaches. She has no idea that she could have been my world. I could have been all she needed. She has no idea. I am the least judgmental person anyone will ever meet, but how could she have known that? I assume she's a pessimist, she assumed the worst. But what could have been the worst, really? I may never get over this.
Sent to save me, but no one told her. Powers she cast away and pushed me aside. Forgive her not, I never will. This lifetime not meant for us. Our paths may cross, some dark dreary overcast day. Insipid clouds will part as fate steps in to guide. Nature holds our hands to lead the way, but leaves it up to us to move. Stand still. Always I wait. You move away. She is gone. He is dead. I am alone. Mournful. Full of mourn. Nothing can save me this time. Not even a good book. It is too late.
I have nothing to write anymore. I am void. A lack of meaningful words. I have microsoft word, finally, and by the magic of a tiny little device I have all of my files. It amazes me. But still, I don't allow myself to write. I say allow because I feel sad, like depressed, and so I know that if I tried I should have words. But I stop myself. I hurt myself with this. To feel useful, I resort to editing my book. My beautiful darling book. I'm internally negotiating a big change. The lady should be a painter.
Someone dies and I think
There's no way I can bring myself to the wake or funeral.
I can't. Maybe it's selfish. But did I even know this person? Not at all. Do I know his son? Yes. Do I feel bad for him? Tremendously. But yet, sorry isn't even the word I would like to say to him. All I want to tell him is
I know. I know that you know. I know that you know that I know.
Sorry had no meaning for me when I was in it. Still has no meaning. I forget it's purpose.
Editing is kind of fun. Sentence structure is easy to fix. My main concern is avoiding the repetitive he, she, her, him starts to sentences. I know during the writing process I was very not concerned with anything of the sorts. Wasn't concerned with anything other than getting the story written. The entire time I just kept telling myself that I could fix it all during revisions. And it's true, and I don't mind it. This isn't bad. The trouble will come when I start revising the plot, or specifically the subplot. That right there is it's main weakness. Subplot.
Nervousness crept in last night. Now this morning I meet it face to face. My stomach is in knots doing somersaults. There should be no need to be scared. I can do this; we know this. Ultimately, I will enjoy this, I always do. School is my thing, how many times have I said that now? I have a headache. I am tired. Sleep didn't find me. Five am found me well. Now I wait, ill. I'll be better when the first days are done. I always am. Then I'll find my groove, and then the semester will be over.
This will be a damn decent semester. Only one first left, Monday, and it's a class I'm taking no matter what, for art credits, and so I don't care if it's horrible. My other classes are terrific. Math will be harder than it looks, but I think it will enable me to be willing to take a Logic course. If I can finagle my way through logic then I will minor in Philosophy at a four-year college. Things are gonna be alright. Two psychology classes was a brilliant idea. And abnormal psychology will rock my world, in a great way.
Can I say I
to be a writer? When will it get to that point? The words faded. They are gone. I am stuck.
Drowning. It's my black sea of fabricated, manufactured
My conundrum. To feel happy as I watch my real happiness run dry. Oh it's so complicated. Creativity versus happiness. If it weren't for school it would be no contest. Creativity all the way. But no, because I know this will ultimately aid in my success here. Nothing comes easy. To get something great you usually have to give up something equally great. Lifeís cycle.
It's possible I could die and no one will have understood me at all. They try, they can plead understandings, but it's a damn sham. She says she knows, but she don't know. She's never been there.
Nice try though. Without light you can't have darkness. Show me light and suddenly I'm aware of that darkness. I swear I was content. Unhappy as hell, but content. All I knew was dark. I knew different shades of dark. No light. Now light. Fuck. Who am I? Who was I? This is too much and too crazy. I don't know myself.
My beautiful, wonderful laptop is on its way back to me! Got the companies email this morning. I was elated! Simply overjoyed. I will undoubtedly sleep better tonight. Maybe without laptop dreams. It's been a rough two weeks. I hope it gets here soon. I can hardly wait. Itís gonna be perfect. Sickly no more. I told it I would take care of it. I wished it well as I sent it away, told it to keep its head up. I feared the worst, but had only reassurance to share with the laptop. And now it's on its way home.
It can't be the lack of sadness stifling my writing. No way. It's the medicine itself. I have a theory, too extensive to explain. But I suspect foul play and chemicals. I detect blockages and or deflections. The creative thoughts are the unfinished ones. Odd? Indeed. And the noise in my brain, itís out of control and furthering my paranoid suspicions. Soon the medicine will be the lone enemy fighting its own losing battle. It doesn't belong here and my brain is rejecting it. You failed, you fuck. The doctor failed me too, by succeeding. I secretly never wanted this.
I always hold out. I wait before stepping into the cold metal box. It becomes inevitable because the thoughts build as if from an avalanche. It plagues me. Though I know the outcome, I relent regardless. This time shall be no different. Once in the box I will yell, despite knowing my voice stays trapped in my lungs gasping for breath. What am I doing to myself? I can never just
Nothing is ever simple or cut and dry. Cut and paste. I thought I turned to plastic but it turns out they only glued me back together. Oh.
I half anticipated this and I shouldn't be scared. Nervous yes, but scared no. Last semester this same event sent me into a whirlwind. No, a tailspin. It marked the official start of my beginning of semester breakdown. This time I am very much okay. Not only that, but I am swell. I opened the email and Instantly thought up two ideas for both of my psychology classes. Dumb luck, perhaps. Or maybe my subconscious had been working on it all along. As for ritual breakdowns, yesterday I met my demons and beat them down. I'm going to be fine.
Her voice, like nails, drives through my skull reverberating with pain. Fingers across a blackboard, the sound etched in my mind never failing to make me cringe. But I love it. And I hate myself, for loving her as well. I am foolish like unrequited love and I shall never learn. Never will I win. She doesn't even know what she lost out on: my pure unadulterated love and adoration. It makes me sad. I know where she is right now. So easily I could see her. But I fear the worst. I went too far and perhaps she knows.
I got my beautiful laptop back this morning! It came before I left for class, but I didn't know it until I was already out the door. Class dragged and the ride home seemed forever. But it is here; it is lovely. It's like new. They
replaced the units motherboard and thermal module. Softloaded unit. Unit now boots runs and tests ok.
Yeah, I don't know what any of that means, but I know it came back to me as pristine as it was the first day. There will never be another needless download ever again. I learn from mistakes.
Why the dependency on Microsoft word? I feel a void without it, as if it completes some part of me. But it's ridiculous. I can't write either way. Besides, MSword is on the desktop so if I wanted it bad enough it's within my reach. But I can't write. That part of me is currently dead. I stay anchored to depression, but it's not enough. I need more. Rolling in black hills is my true desire. Within insipid clouds my prose would flow. I fear I have lost more than I will gain. This is my new topic of obsession.
The thought of writing fills my days. The thought is far from the act. I lay dying. Crippled with a lack of words. Still not writers block, I swear. This is different. It's a chemical reaction. Hope resides that I will adjust and my writing will return. In the meantime I fear the worst. It is that time of year. On top of that, I crave the deeper depression and this feels like a sure way to retrieve some of it. At the same time I want to be strong because I know I can. But the thoughts accumulate fast.
How are these feelings possible. They shouldn't coincide like this. It's incomprehensible. And some people aren't able to create while in depression, such salt to my wounds. I have stories bursting from within. Clawing and tearing trying to exit my throat. I swallow and stifle. I'm losing. An exit is required. I am missing so much. Wish it all away. Leave me, please. Damn. Give me back my pain. Why is this so unnatural? I still find it hard to believe that the rest of the world doesn't feel the way I used to feel. I am alone in moonlight.
My inner world is crazy. I do one thing and then feel something different all day. And what a day today has been. Being busy isn't my thing. Today was one thing after another. I will be exhausted by Friday. Space will be needed desperately. In the meantime I am hanging on securely. Class, class, orientation, honors. We shall all honor me. Me and honor will in fact be in the same sentence. Two of them, as a matter of fact. I have only vague ideas for my projects. And for one I doubt there will be enough available information.
Art History just might kill me, but I'm gonna bust my ass until then. If I get A's in all my classes, and then have the two honors program projects, that will be six A's all in a row. That will be a beautiful sight worth working hard for. I can do this. If anyone can do this then it's me. The math class is hard too, but I have the determination and motivation to succeed. When I want something bad enough I always find a way. Worry not.
If you could coddle the infection they can amputate at once.
Ideas bounce around like rubber balls. When there are too many I cannot catch them all. When there are not enough I tend to throw too hard and lose them. I am complex. Soon I will be writing again. Why? Because I will be extremely busy and I always write when I don't have time. My journal entries are getting deeper. Recently a couple were profound. I am edging on finding that happy medium within my new inner world. Give me words and give me life. Take my words and give me death. I only ask to live free, please.
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