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Explosion

Explosion, explosion, unexplosion. Is that a word? Stupid Firefox and its little red lines. 1 2 3 4 5. 5 times the explosion. After all, what is creativity but explosion? Can I stay inspired forever? Or is that too much for any one person to handle? Would that kill me?

Whenever my inspiration fade, I become coherent, cohesive, and linear. But when I'm not, I just go crazy as thoughts explode out of my head. I used to think that they would fade, used to whine on here about how my creativity was fading with time and disuse, but that was just bullshit whining because I was afraid and angry and still am a little afraid and angry and dry but now wet, so very, very wet as the rush of inspiration flows through me and I am dramatic and subversive and what? What is that you say? Man, the voices don't like me very much today. What voices, you ask? No, no, not schizophrenic, can't believe I spelled that right but no, no, I'm not, I'm just a Bipolar girl in the midst of a mania, and I like to pretend that there are voices because sometimes I feel lonely and wow, I sound freaking crazy, don't I? But I don't act it, not usually, and that's how I can pass for a normal human being, only not quite, because my liberal thoughts and voice drive the relatively conservative children of America crazy, usually. In rereading a lot of the whining I've done on this journal, I've realized that though my thought process may stay the same, my perception on life has shifted, because I understand life better now, and in hindsight, realize how not different I really am. I want to be special, sure, but the only people who say I'm weird are people who don't think like me. There are plenty of people who don't think that I'm terribly weird, because they themselves have been accused of that very same thing for their liberal viewpoints and so-called "perverse" sexuality, though now I realize that it isn't perverse, just different.

Of course he would say that, don't tell him that, what were you thinking, you stupid bitch? You, who wants to be close to everything and who run on oxytocin like the drug that it is. Yeah, the voices are a little pissed. If only because I do stupid things and act stupid ways and can't avoid the little voice that's there whether I want it to be or not, warning me, telling me to listen, to just stop being so fucking stupid, and god forbid I actually explain what I'm thinking because then it might MEAN something to someone else and not just to me, as I remain the only person able to understand my thoughts, and it could be weeks, months, years later that I reread my words, and I'll always understand what I mean and how I feel because I am me and no one else is me, and to anyone else reading this is just sounds like crazy ramblings when all it is is the closest expression of how I feel INSIDE. I can't describe it in a better way. Perhaps adjectives are the way to go, but they'll no more describe my feelings than my silly, run on sentences. Angry at him, scared of myself and others, excited, but that excitement is daunted by HIM, he who thinks he knows me so well, so very well, who, with a little bit of judgment, can completely destroy in my mind that which made me so happy before, if only because he makes me use my brain.

And I don't want to use my brain, I just want to be happy, for once, though the sad truth was and remains that I can only be beautiful when my life is crashing down around my ears, because nothing else will bring it on.

I realize now, upon reflection, that last year was one of the worst years of my life. 2008-2009, at the beginning, quite terrible. But my life now, from late 2009-2010, is strangely wonderful, in its own way, thought there are parts that are undeniably horrific, for whatever reason.

Write, write, write, write nothing, because I am not quite right, as I often said my world is not quite right seen through drunken goggles high off my own disorder. But I base my definition of "right" upon the world's, and I want to believe in him, I want to believe in myself, but it's so damn hard and I just want to feel the way I did once and not feel this fear and constant awareness of how to behave and how to think and how to protect myself. I don't know why it seems so hard to me, to constantly try and stay coy and sexy and intelligent and interesting and sound sane when all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs and shout and dance and sing in the rain because that is what matters to me, yet I can only express it when my world is narrowed down to this screen and this keyboard that I'm not very good at writing on, aware of the smell of my perfume, and the guy next to me who won't stop fucking around with the printer, and it's irritating as fuck but it's not his fault because I'm just a manic depressive psycho who refuses to fix her own computer so she can go crazy in the privacy of her own room.

I keep feeling like I should stop, stop typing, because this damn entry is already long enough, but it's so hard, and I love the sound of my own voice, even if it is on screen. Why, oh why did I have to be an only child? True, I wouldn't be me if I wasn't, but that may not be such a bad thing. I feel like I'm trapped, constantly trapped with who I am, who I've chosen to be, and the disability of my own personality that I'm stuck with, in relation to other people. But why do I hate this so much, and why do I try so hard? If I tried less hard would I gain or lose friends? Or is that even the point? I am who I am. Either someone's going to love me or they're not, and though there are things that I can do to change that, I understand now that I need to stop trying so freaking hard, because for whatever reason I was born this way, and if I find someone to love, great, happiness, and if I don't, well, shit, perhaps that's the only way I'll ever be great. Split, just constantly split, torn between wanting to be happy and wanting to be good at this, and though it's not the only thing that I'm good at I feel like it's the only thing I ever might get known for. I want to paint and write and be creative, because the way I feel inside and the world I see outside is so interesting and so unique and I want a way to convey it on paper in words or pictures, or on the wall, or perhaps I could use the damn sky when it's white.

I shift, shift, shift, shit, what am I saying? I shift from one thing to another, to another, and stay fairly stable throughout. Perhaps my brain has its own buffer against change in thought, though it was my impression that buffers only worked within a certain range, and that's why sometimes I feel like this. Perhaps everyone has a buffer, but mine doesn't work properly, or in the right range, or whatever, though it isn't the pH level that's being prevented from changing, it's human beings, though my brain changes constantly and now my head hurts and I'm hungry and I have to do homework and so little of that matters when compared to this.

Wind down, don't be like Elena, and stop, just stop typing so freaking quickly. Jesus, I hate homework with a passion. I just want it to be done already, so I can leave this place and go back to sleep or go get some food and just enjoy it.

Calming down. Relaxing. Trying to save some energy for homework.

Why can I only weep now?

DAEJ
"I think you're selfish," said he.
"I know," said she.
"Okay," said he.
"But how am I selfish?" asked she.
"You said you know!" exclaimed he.
"I know you think I'm selfish, but I don't know why," said she.

And around we go, always going, complaining, whining, never ever able to escape who we are, a prison we create within ourselves of our own limitations, our own inability to break out of the role we've assigned ourselves. Irritating to the core, but forgiven as long as the beauty remains. Take that away, and it's gone, baby, gone. Trapped within myself, I fail to see myself. People love me and forgive my flaws. People hate me and obsess over them. And I remain unable to change, unable to see, unable to fight my very nature, because I don't know how to be, was never taught, can never know. Therapy, the word, the answer, the only thing people have been able to say. Because clearly, this is the only way to move past it. Pay some preppy douchebag with a PhD five big ones an hour to listen to me whine about my dysfunctional family and my tortured childhood while they periodically offer cryptic suggestions. Blah blah blah blah blah.

And me, without the desire or the time to actually figure it out myself, and whine about how my life and personality sucks because my parents suck because their parents sucked and so on and so forth, and we toss around the ball of blame because taking it would just be far too honest for each of our tastes.

So I write about it here, in my journal which everyone can see but no one does, because it's easier than actually doing something about it, and my insecurity stems from people talking at me about how I need to be more like everyone else. So every time I actually think about it and analyze it in my head, I wonder why I really give a shit, because the collective person is apathetic and unintelligent and religious but "nice" and "considerate" because they don't stand up for what they believe in, which is the complaint about me. Perhaps the key is to be charismatic and respectful of others' opinions but how can I be expected to be respectful of a religious nut who thinks gays should burn in hell? Shit. There's no middle ground, no way to fix it, and the only solution clear to me is that I just need to surround myself with gay people because straight people are just freaking irritating and are unable to understand why I get so angry when someone says that it's okay to deny gay people the right to adopt and marry. Fuck this shit.

Okay. Cranky and done.

Laughter

The voices laugh at me as I struggle to keep my sanity. I wasn't in love, I wasn't in love, I swear, I never was! Not with him, not with her, or with that him. They didn't mean anything, I swear! Let's just ignore how my heart leaps at the thought of any of them. Let's look past the cyber-stalking because that will make it better. That'll make it all right.

And I wonder at my tears, and my fear, and the laughter that trills in my mind. I'm choking on my words, my tears, my lies as I try, try so hard to keep it all together and ignore the voices that laugh at me and say I wanted this, I carefully orchestrated everything in my life so that it'll result in this, this exact moment of desperation and fear and pain, because I don't know how to live without the pain, never did, of course not.

I angrily swipe the tears from my eyes and frantically think of a way to stop this, to stop this pattern of mine, that I have, that destroys me and hurts everyone that attempts to get close to me. How do I break from what was taught to me since birth? Pain, fear, desperation, struggle. The constant struggle to survive, to stay sane, to avoid the pain, the pain which I learned to love, the fear which I learned to desire.

My arm hurts. I have homework and it's five am and I want sleep.

But of course, more than anything, I wanted this. This feeling, this fear. If I didn't want it I could easily avoid it. I'm intelligent, talented. I don't have to do this every time. But I need it, gods I need it. So much more than anything life ever had to offer me before I need this.

Shit. Anyone know how to break away from a habit that's existed as long as you have?

Fear and Doubt

An explosion of fear and doubt erupt within my mind, and I know, I know, I know that this is what was to be expected of school and now and here, and I need control, control, control, because I can't concentrate I'm too busy being afraid, afraid, afraid. Hands shaking, heart beating, eyes darting all over the place as I frantically try to make up for that which I lost, lost, lost. Please, please, please make it stop I beg of you, beg of you. Can you, will you, do you understand this eruption of fear and shaking fingers which can't even begin to type properly, never, never properly. But I have to deal with him and her and THEM and this FEAR, so much FEAR and the doubt that I'm ready, have been ready, ever will be ready for this, because it's to much, it's all just too much and resentment and anger rises up within me, over years and years of carefully constructed maturity which fades in the blink of an eye like THAT. Nails painted black, eyes dull and forward, cold, cold air on my skin raising my skin and hair into stress and clean, clean beauty, but mostly fear and the inability to cope with anything and everything and it's just all too much.

Tearing

It’s hard to tear my fingers away long enough to write.

Tap, tap, tap.

What am I? What do I feel? What do I want. I reflect softly that I should write more, because when I don't, when I let it all build up inside of me like that, I can barely write, because I'm typing so fast that I have to rewind again and again to correct the wrongs.

My head hurts, my heart aches, and I don't understand what it is I feel, because how could I possibly understand what I feel? I just have to let it go, let it go, let it all go and let myself go because it is not I who writes these words as I stare at my keyboard in abject misery as my fingers strive to remember how to use this mysterious thing, one hand wanting to do that other's job, and I shake a little bit, wishing I could get the words out faster but I have no one to talk to and I wonder if he reads this and it seems absurd, so very, very absurd that we can be a year later and I still think on him night and day and all the little bits in between because I am nothing if I have nothing to be miserable about, because my misery is my joy, is my beauty, is my writing, and I am lost without it, indeed, I have been lost lately, and this is my mind, my mind is one unbroken, run on sentence in a field of broken glass which tears me to pieces if I so much as THINK.

Pause for a moment. Reflect.

Can't, can't reflect, because there is nothing to reflect on, because what I write is not reflection, it is simply a glance at what is within, it is not beautiful it is not terrible, and this is killing me because for FUCK's sake I want to write faster and my hands simply won't allow it, so perhaps I should write on paper, real paper which can feel the kiss of my forgotten, careless tears as I feel alone, so very very alone, and feel it so acutely if only because now, unlike then I am so much closer to actually not being alone. Close, so close, like steel turned into glass, and now I know what I am missing, because I see it, so clearly, and I can't break the glass because it'll tear me apart, kill me, kill me. I want it to, I want something to kill me, but this is just depression talking, and I want to be older while I stay young forever because I want these FEELINGS to fade, please, please fade, let me not feel this anymore because I can't think on him any longer, on what I'm missing, on what I've let get away from me, because I'm stupid, so very, very stupid, and he knew this and he pulled away, and I'm left dying in my own, destroyed head, and no the flood gates are opened, and I know not what I write, I know not what I think, simply that I can't stop now, now that it's open, and I wonder how I lasted so long without this, waiting, just waiting for it to all go away, and I want to talk to him, want to see him, want to know what it's like, want to know how it feels, and NOT him, the other him, the him I know not. Please, please, please, I beg to world to give me relief, and it's like trying to reach orgasm and failing each time, and I'm close, so close to that absolution which will let me sleep, but I can't rub fast enough, can't type fast enough and my brain won't let me rest, my soul doesn't give a damn, and my body is tense and my mind is a sponge being wrung out, and too filled, far too filled, the water is spilling everywhere, and I'm just a mystery, that weird girl that no one understands, the crazy one, that everyone thinks they get but no one cares, no one cares, because I'm just weird and self-pitying and obnoxious and anal and WHAT IS THIS? I don't know how to get it out swiftly enough, there's too much, too much, I can't do it all, I can't do it at all and why oh why does my heart kill me so, and I want to rhyme, and if I find the right words then perhaps I can finally sleep, and why don't I write more? If I did, perhaps it would be easier, for writing is my soul, it's my everything, and only other writers can understand why I die. I should talk about all the things that are bothering me, talk about my life, talk about my pain, it is, after all, the reason I got on here is the first place, and I can't figure out a way to make all this less painful, make myself NEED this less, because I need it, I need it so much, I need to let this chaos escape the confines of my dark, pointless mind. I need it, I need it like a crystal queen needs candy, I NEED it, I need it to hurt, I need to bleed, but this, this is the healthy method, the one I've been avoiding, and the reason why it doesn't seem like enough, why it can never be enough, it'll never be enough....

Am I jealous? Perhaps a little. But not for a good reason. And it's not so much jealousy, it's just weirdness over the finality, the idea that I can't ever call him again because she's there. It wasn't like we had anything special, but it does feel weird.

I long for a partner, and I don't know why. My thoughts are more coherent now, more cohesive, good. And somehow this is more of a relief than what came before. I know this, though: I do HAVE to write. I can't live without it. I die without it.

Love is a bit more elusive, though. And thanks to my encounter with Jonathan, I have no desire to sleep with anyone until I actually am going to form a relationship with them. And the lack of sex is taking its toll. I have a high libido, and not having sex is extremely difficult for me. What the fuck am I supposed to do without sex? Love, love I can wait for, albeit a bit impatiently. But sex is something that I don't know how to function without. It's killing me. And I'm not getting ANYTHING. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Masturbation can only get me so far.

I feel relieved. My head hurts. I need more sex, good god, I need more sex. That is to say, I need some sex. Any sex. Jesus.

Enough for now. The twitching's faded slightly.

I Write For...

Pain. I write to release myself from it. Every journal entry of mine contains some small bit of pain. And the things I say are strange. Very, very strange. Why do I say such strange things? I read the things I write, pause, look back over them, and a smile curves my face at the accidental brilliance that came from me.

This seems beautiful to me. I don't know if it does to anyone else. I would hope so.

I wonder if I go back and read all my journal entries at once if I'll get annoyed by myself. That would be a strange thing to have happen, wouldn't it? I think I am the same, in these digital pages. The way I think is strange, confused, convoluted. I guess I don't really get it, don't really get myself. People look at me and see my smile and it makes them smile because my smile is so geniune, and I'm not sure how that happened, but it did. Then people get to know me and are weirded out, because something about me is off, different, but no one can put their finger on it, and I don't know how to even try, because I have only ever been the way I am. It's not a disease, or something that suddenly changed one day. I have my weaknesses, my flaws, my ugliness, my beauty. Just like every other human. But I'm not, and no one can tell me why, they just know that I am. You know, you'd think that if they could tell I'm strange and different, they could tell why too. Everyone's the same and everyone's different, yet I just don't think the same way, and it's obvious in EVERYTHING that I do. The way I write, my strange kindness and utter cruelty. I grow attached to things so easily. It tears me apart inside, and sometimes I feel like I don't care about anything at all. Sometimes I feel so alone I want to die, and sometimes I feel so smothered by others, by my LIFE, my plain, boring life that I just want to pack a duffel and get the hell out of this place.

What can I do but die? They said I'd never tell a lie.

Not pregnant. Not yet. Shouldn't be, though god knows my body wants me to be. It's just instinct.

Jonathan. Can't even. No. Nothing.

Rent. Lies. It all fades away when I write because my subconcious, at least, realizes how little it all matters.

One day I will read this and I will weep.

Will anyone else?

Kill me now, before it's too late.

I know I sound crazy. But I'm just a depressed artist. I let my words come to you through nothing, because they are nothing, without a reader.

Painted nails, black and red swirls.

I've managed to hold out for twenty four days without sex. I'm proud. But sick of it.

Ha.

I write for myself.

Difference

Billions of people in the world, and I wish to be different. I dare to wish to be different. Why, I wonder? I am different. There's no denying it. Everyone says I am, so I must be, yes? But I guess not everyone finds me strange. I just exist. I am strange because I talk like this, think like this. Because I am intelligent? Because I had a bad childhood? Because my imagination knows no bounds? Perhaps because I twitch slightly, and stare off into space for no apparent reason. Life is like a dream to me. But I am so passionate. So pained. I try so hard to be special. I try so hard to be better than everyone else, because I think I am. And I confirm that within myself with scraps of evidence gathered, doing my best to ignore all the other evidence which nearly blinds me.

My keyboard is black, my screen made up of particle of light, colors throughout the spectrum. They can be anything I imagine. Anything I see.

Gods. Why does my body vibrate? I must be something. I can be anything. I can ignore pain, because it is mundane and foolish, but I must FEEL it to exist. To learn. I must learn. I must, must, must.

Sing.

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catjetrat

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