I know I keep telling myself I am going to get better and better at this whole writing everything down again like I used too. There was a time in my life where I lived in notebooks, wrote so many stories almost all night. I would have these amazing story lines or something along the latter from my favorite book or new movie I enjoyed and made a twist on it myself. As I got older and started to work more and more and doing other things, I stopped.
I wonder off in stores that have paper and pens. I hate going to Office Max or Staples, Walmart or even book stores that have journals I want to write in. I think of all the stories or secrets those pages could hold for me.
They say writing can heal you. Writing can also hurt you. We can write we are hurting but then words are just over looked just like when speaking, and even reading what I write I go “wow.” all because I know the emotions I put into this. I know that I can go off on a banter or rant about nothing but my thoughts and my feelings matter. Because I am human. I want to write, because I can express myself better this way. Dealing with depression and an eating disorder is so hard. Also I am struggling with my boyfriend and his new adventure, I cry a lot at night, I lay in bed wondering the worst, that he will never come home, he will find someone else (I know in the Antarctic?) he will stop loving me because of the distance, I am afraid I will lose my best friend in the entire world. I am just very emotionally all over the fucking place.
I am also drinking coffee in the mid afternoon so that is not going to help with my jitters either so go me right? I just need someone to hug me right now. I am in love, scared, confused on who I am and I am just writing about nothing that doesn’t make any freaking sense. GO. Me.
I always seem to think that I have these great ideas and I don’t. Clearly I am nothing but a wasteful individual because I know the potential I have. …just doesn’t always work out for me.