Tuesday, October 6

Blue Ridge Mountain

You need to find time to write.
You need to find time to write.
You need to find time to write.

I found these words in my inbox today. I feel obligated to act upon them. They were written in love and to deny love is to deny existence (and we are not strolling back down existentialist lane ever again---erm, metaphorically and transcendentally speaking, of course).

The monotony of the working world kind of puts a dapper on my happy little ways as it’s the weight of responsibilities I haven’t quite grown into curled beneath the tips of my fingers.

Okay, maybe it’s nothing that dramatic.

It’s a little more than the average part-time work, but I’m so emotionally drained after nightly productions of Waitress that I can’t participate in human activity anymore. So, I shun my family and neglect my friends and vegetate until morning, when I have to do it all over again. What is then left of me is given to either school work or to the boy who doesn’t love me. So there goes writing…

When I write, all pretense is gone. I’ve exposed myself as being vulnerable, and that takes energy. It also takes courage to throw fragments of this metaphysical Athia into the cosmic happenings in hopes that you, dear friend, will receive pieces of me with open hearts. This is a fearlessness that I haven’t been able to find, so I leave my words to their own devices, one kiss poems that never leave the shelter of my highly protected word processor.

I just can’t figure out what I’m so damn afraid of, really. Aside from public bathroom serial killers and bugs crawling into my ears at night, laying eggs in my brain. But that’s legitimate. It happens. It really does. It also happens to be unrelated, but we’ll just overlook that.

Anyway, what this whole rant is about is getting my ass to work. Not the pizza tray carrying kind, mind you. I will make genuine attempts to write. I promise. And this isn’t the sort of empty promise you say to shut someone up (whoever can quiet their subconscious is either a mage or sociopath…). Promises should never be empty, especially those to yourself. C’mon. You’re better than that, kid.

I’ve been letting irrelevant things distract me from learning to love better and that has just got to stop.


P.S. People, please stop having babies. Seriously. I don’t want to see another baby birthed until I’m 95. Let the Earth catch up to us, dammit!
P.P.S. Fleet Foxes make me happy.
P.P.P.S. I slurped my linner smoothie too quickly and now my throat hurts. :/

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