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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?




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