motivation

on my walk to class, i thought the idea of denying myself nourishment until writing ten pages each day would be a fantastic motivator.

i'm not sure if english breakfast tea and cigarettes will count as nourishment, even if the idea of being a tea drinker and hand rolled cigarette smoker is appealing to my writer-image.

just not the same anymore

just not the same anymore
it's really depressing trying to live a better life
parliament light 100s were such a good distraction.
and diet coke (in a can)
or living in a total mess

my wheels

Today I learned,

Apparently, my frequent beloved long strolls make me a FLANEUR. With a ^ atop the "A".

take-it-back

dear you (yes! you! you there!),

on my journey as an artist (oh. god. is it more humiliating i phrased it "on my journey as an artist", or the fact i literally couldn't discover another way to phrase what i meant by "on my journey as an artist"? did i just take steps back on this journey for explaining this to you? i try to avoid explaining as much as the words "can't", "like", "never", "like" and "always".  "like")

fuck it!

basically, i can't explain what i was writing about before october 1st, 2008. 

i wanted to delete them all from you, like my former blog from the spring; which remains saved as documents for my eyes only. alas, i won't. 

i am not ashamed of my un-edited kerouac-ing rhymes &/or reasons... 

i spoke abstractly, it was cowardly. 

my little sister birdy didn't like any of my writing this past year... she is my best judge, audience, & critic; which obviously bothered me to not hear her sing my praises or just laugh. "it's like you're hiding" 

sigh

there were many things i so did not want to admit last year that i couldn't open my mouth to speak without hiding. isn't it always an odd feeling when you see the truth in your past; which is naturally when you felt the most true, but i just become the personification of my fears conveniently justified by the naive glamour of rebellion.  

i became a very poetically described loser because my rebellion had no merit, aside running away from anything that could potentially help me accomplish my dreams of an artistic career in the entertainment business. 

the weight of purgatory became suffocating by mid june. 

by the end of the first week in september,  i couldn't even imagine a life with dreaming because i became so terrified of getting let down by this ungainly adult life i rushed in to by dropping out of school with four letter words, passionate improvised anger, & a slightly damaged discarded guitar seemingly made from rough sturdy card board like wood (allowing you to assume i shattered a patent leather fender studded in emeralds would not do my story any justice. the guitar, and myself, were both cheap and lookin to get canned); which is way too epic to have any interesting life follow afterwards. 

the boring formality of graduating has it's perks. 

i.e. structure and entering the real world after finishing something other then multiple orgasms alone. 

Not that it's any of your business, but I now believe that classic story used in every culture/generation/gender/race/religion/country of origin/film/television/novel/novella/debatably the biblical tale of jesus christ/lifetime movie/highway 61 revisited/holden of new york or dorothy of kansas. should be spelled in an alternative fashion cuming of age. If thirteen year old boys had the freedoms of a twenty-one  year old college girl, he would have never made it to high school. my mother had thrown me off the nest as it was, so she certainly wasn't going avoid the mess of discovering the greatest way to pass the time alone and avoid life all together.  creative writing or exploring my sexuality safely in the privacy of my own tree house like apartment? the latter had better lighting and allowed my former chain smoking habits. it's just hard to read 5-7 page short stories from students who invest over 100,000$ on their college education, and still manage to have only read The Notebook. And loved it. If  The Babysitter's Club and Goosebumps for children is what The Notebook is for adults. Read them,  but understand that  Readers Digest  introduces more complex ideas and innovative structure then Nicholas Sparks has written in his career as a novelist. A nine year old girl could plug in words like Soulmate and Cancer and Wrong-Side-Of-The-Train-Tracks or Townie and 1964 and poof! 

Today I realized I have never been happier before in my life, and I live without fear of another shoe to drop as I constantly worried my former happiness away. In every aspect of my life currently, I am at peace and so thankful for the people and opportunities that I can carve out and fill my time with as to avoid the unfortunate fact that this life feels like eternity and it only gets longer and longer and longer. So take it from me, don't ever see what life feels like without the concern of time. Anyone in their right mind will go insane.

Good Night.  

(written last night around 4 am)