tap to the tune of Anberlin
Writing has always been an outlet for me. I wonder why I only feel like writing when I’m sad, or empty. Sometimes I’m so empty I don’t know what to do with myself. I wouldn’t call this depression or even sadness. It’s not crippling. It just a general loss of knowing what to do with myself. Nothing seems to quench my thirst. Getting drunk: yeah actually, that would work. Both in a literal and metaphorical sense. But that’s not the right thing to do right now, and I know it, so I’ll avoid it.
Thoughts on paper, or rather, thoughts on screen. Compelling arguments in my head made by both sides of the equation become visible as the letters scroll across the screen in real time. Do I like writing because it forces the thoughts in my head to become, in a sense, solidified and legitimate? Does the physical act of writing them down make them real?
One at a time, yet overlapping all at once, these strings of consciousness swim to the surface, bobbing up and down, screaming, fighting to be let out through my fingers and tapped onto the keyboard. This feels good.
On and on I could go. The thoughts seem never-ending. Until they do. But they don’t really end. They just shift to a new subject. They’re distracted by the challenge of a new perspective to speculate on; A new assignment to make noise about. But what really matters always finds a way to interrupt, rearing it’s ugly head yet again, bobbing to the surface even just for a second before I force it back down into the depths where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts reside. Stay put motherfucker.
2087
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
origamiaround
