It's pushing 5 AM and I'm writing now because I feel like I need to get something down. While I'm sitting on my bed, hands hovering over my home row, I just wait. What am I waiting for? Inspiration? That master strike of lightening that will flood me with tons of discussion topics, items of interest, though provoking ideas that need further exploration? Is that what's going to spring from my shriveled fount that is my brain? God I hope so.
I'm doing what I've been told to do since I started calling myself a writer. Sit at my computer and write. It could be anything. It could be a deluge of expletives, expressing how frustrating it is to not have anything to say. Fuckshitcuntbaghoskankfuckfuckfuckbloodydickdrippingsowfuckityfuckfuckasswhore! Not as freeing as I thought it would be.
Since it is pushing 5 AM I can't just scream at the top of my lungs. I don't want to give my neighbors another reason to dislike me. I don't particularly care about their opinion, I frankly can't stand them. There is some kind of etiquette somewhere that says, you can't freak out your neighbors. I'm not sure what the exact protocol says, but I'm sure I'm not allowed to wake them just because I'm upset.
See the thing about this inability to express myself, is that I think I might have to just scream it out. Shout it out from the hill-side just what a hack I think I am. It's like there is something boiling under the surface of my skin and any moment my face will explode. Am I having an anxiety attack? Is it bunching up in my shoulders and sending shivers down my arms? Are my fingers getting jittery? Are they shaking? Trembling in fear? Is my heart racing? Do I feel short of breath like I ran a marathon? The world isn't going to end, but why do I feel like it will?
My world maybe, is crashing down on me? I think. There's nothing really happening and that might be the reason. Maybe because I had this expectation of myself about where I'm supposed to be right now. But really, where was I supposed to be. Not here. Expectation verse the reality is that I never really made a concrete plan. Much like what happened after I made 2nd Class Petty Officer. I didn't see, or think to see, that far ahead. I didn't prepare. I hate that I didn't do that.
I wish I had that spark I used to have. The spark that kept me focused and writing, that kept me truly engaged in myself and not the world around me. I wonder if it is because I'm not hungry. I truly don't know. I suppose the best thing for me to do is go and find out what changed.
Find me Find me Find me Find me Find me. I'm lost and I don't know how to get back. The only thing I can do is keep writing. Keep writing keep writing keep writing, keep writing until there is something on the screen that has dept of meaning and purpose. Write until the word pops up, write until the keys in the lock turn. Write Write Write. WRITE GOD DAMMIT! FOR FUCK'S SAKE WRITE SOMETHING.
I just want to throw my computer through the window. I need some kind of catharsis. Something violent and sudden.