writer’s block at its finest.

my mind is everywhere.

none of my thoughts are concrete enough to put on paper… or, well, screen i suppose.

i am awake for half of the night. and asleep for half of the day.

christmas is coming. but before christmas, an even more momentous day. maybe momentous isn’t the correct word. i’m sure there isn’t really a correct word for it at all.  or maybe that’s just my writer’s block.

i’m not even a writer. sure, i used to be. back when adverbs were a concept that kids my age were barely grasping and i was way ahead of the game. not so much anymore.

i’m a thinker. and sometimes i think the two go hand in hand. you must be a thinker in order to be a writer.

i think i’m solely a thinker. and possibly should never attempt to write anything formal or beautiful.

i can’t even write my thoughts. because i don’t know what to make of them, how to consolidate them, or even if they make sense at all.

they probably don’t.

if my thoughts barely make sense to me, there’s no way they will make sense to the rest of the world.

a snippet:

this hallways freezing. but my face is hot. am i embarrassed? or stressed maybe? my stomach hurts. am i hungry? or stressed maybe? stressed seems like such a stupid word today. overwhelmed doesn’t fit either. i need to call my sister. i need to call my mom. the kitchen floor is wonderful. why is everything changing? why do i care? i hated the old kitchen floor. i hate a lot of things this year. my head is throbbing. should i throw out my gum? or am i just stressed? he won’t even look at me anymore. am i imagining it? no. he’s a douche. no, i’m ridiculous. i want space. do i? i have space. i have more than space. i have douchebag-ery. i didn’t ask for that. i didn’t ask for a lot of things that are happening. my face is unbearably hot.

and so. i will stick to thinking. and probably never writing half the things i think.

christmas.

Advertisement