#XD30 - Two - Writing is Hard
Anxiety is a bitch. Depression is a motherfucker, and circumstances be damned.
Life has been pretty fucking hard on me. I honestly had so much fun writing yesterday I didn't want to tear myself away from my computer. I sat for hours looking at the screen and just typing--anything that came to mind really. Most of the time my thoughts race: responsibilities, obligations, paranoia and loneliness can be pretty fucking overwhelming. But yesterday I was able to get past all that and make the words make sense--even though there was still a consequence.
Having to relive moments I would rather put behind me, but being compelled to just write it all down so I can attempt to work through it? The shit sucks. The headaches, the pressure on my brain, it all just makes me want to lay down and go to sleep. It's a rambling cycle on spin that gets me all worked up and emotional and then I lay there, on the floor, arms outstretched with open wounds just bleeding out. Figuratively, of course. But I can't lie, I've thought about it.
It's funny because when I'm writing a story, it's like the story is writing through me. I'm just a vessel that puts the words on paper. It lets me know when it's complete. I can't just finish because I say I'm finished. The story is a boil that's developed underneath the skin's surface and, once it's popped and out in the open, I have to scrape out all the infection until the site is clean and empty. It sounds so cliche, but I literally sit there until it feels completed. Right now, though? I'm exhausted.
Life has been pretty fucking hard on me. I honestly had so much fun writing yesterday I didn't want to tear myself away from my computer. I sat for hours looking at the screen and just typing--anything that came to mind really. Most of the time my thoughts race: responsibilities, obligations, paranoia and loneliness can be pretty fucking overwhelming. But yesterday I was able to get past all that and make the words make sense--even though there was still a consequence.
Having to relive moments I would rather put behind me, but being compelled to just write it all down so I can attempt to work through it? The shit sucks. The headaches, the pressure on my brain, it all just makes me want to lay down and go to sleep. It's a rambling cycle on spin that gets me all worked up and emotional and then I lay there, on the floor, arms outstretched with open wounds just bleeding out. Figuratively, of course. But I can't lie, I've thought about it.
It's funny because when I'm writing a story, it's like the story is writing through me. I'm just a vessel that puts the words on paper. It lets me know when it's complete. I can't just finish because I say I'm finished. The story is a boil that's developed underneath the skin's surface and, once it's popped and out in the open, I have to scrape out all the infection until the site is clean and empty. It sounds so cliche, but I literally sit there until it feels completed. Right now, though? I'm exhausted.
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