Thursday, November 14, 2013


Writing is exorcising demons. The nasty ones, and the nice ones too. Writing is purging your spirit of whatever filth or joy may be swirling around inside of it. Writing is catharsis, an inexplicable connection to something, a mode of expression both limited and limitless.

I read somewhere yesterday that in your head it's hard to tell what's going on but something about ink and paper brings out the truth. I find this to be startlingly true, though I prefer type since I can keep up with the flow of my thoughts much easier. You cannot allow yourself to lie when you dictate your own thoughts, and if you do it's difficult, it's painstaking, it feels wrong. It's not catharsis but fabrication and feels more like work than passion.

One could argue that fiction is fabrication but I don't believe that to be true. I think writers write to find out what they feel about something, factual or imaginary, and I think every character has a piece of the author within them.

There's "COPS" on in the lobby at my work and the remote's batteries died, so I'm being subjected to something terrible out of my control.

There's a woman(I struggle to call her this instead of "bitch") who comes into the bar my friends and I go to, and sits across the way from us, hating me. I've never met her, and looked up one night to see her giving me the most hate filled incredulous look I'd ever seen. It was truly striking, since this was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on her. I saw her again last night and she started adding snarky comments and eye rolling to the spiteful gazes, as if my very existence offends her at the deepest level. She wants so badly for me to feel badly, and she does not know anything about me other than what I look like. At first her attempts at inflicting pain worked a little bit, I was pissed, and puzzled. Now after seeing her a second time I try my best to laugh at this stupidity and I'm starting to succeed but it's just a reminder of how confusing life can be. How unnecessarily hateful people can be for no reason other than the fact that they are in pain, and do not like themselves. She cannot stand to be in her own skin. She goes out every 10 minutes to smoke cigarettes, I remember when I used to do that, it's a symptom of being constantly uncomfortable. Some people are truly impossible, nay, difficult to have compassion for. She sits there and looks so miserable, I won't let myself be infected with that misery.

Right now the woman that lives in the apartment complex across the street from the work desk I currently sit in is texting me and offering to bring me these pills that I am addicted to. I refuse to give in but regardless I will probably think about it for the rest of the day.

Right now my relationship is in a weird place, I'm unsure of whether it's going to work and that is an uncomfortable place to be, sorta like walking down a staircase in the dark and not knowing how many steps there are and whether you're going to trip and topple down. We get along fine but I still have a sense of something impending and I can't shake it.

The struggles never end, you just have to keep going.

These are the tests we undergo in maintaining our peace of mind. When we think we've found it something will come up to shake us up and make us doubt it. It is how we consciously decide to deal with things. Reacting out of habit is easy, consciousness takes work and it's a job I am going to undertake.

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