All Keyed-Up

I stopped writing.
I stopped playing volleyball and baseball.

Basically, I’ve just stopped doing all of the things that make me ME. The writing thing is the craziest part. I used to write everyday, even if it was just drivel. Silly little Dear Diary entries from when I was 9 or 10. More recently, I was writing more and more. When I was in university I was writing everyday, but that’s different. That was because I had to, so I could graduate. But these days, I don’t write anything.

The last thing I actually wrote was a screenplay. I finished it a couple months ago. I guess the tantalizing offer from someone claiming to “see my talent” was too much for me to resist. So I caved, finished writing it, and sent it.

The thing is, I usually have to be a in certain mood to write anything that I end up even remotely liking. I have a few pieces that I like, but mostly I look at my work like it’s an embarrassment. The emotional stuff, at least. It’s extremely hard to reveal your secrets, I’ve discovered. People look at you differently. They see you differently. Everything changes. You either get pity or you get sorrow or you get the Leprosy Effect. Where people must think that if they get too close, they too will experience the Darkness. Sometimes I also think people see me differently because to the world, I really only show one side. I’m quick to laugh and make jokes, I’m sarcastic and dry with my humour. That’s the me most people see.

A small handful of people see the other side. The person who struggles and sometimes gets dragged down so far that she can’t see her way out. Takes me a couple of days to resurface. Crowds can be exhausting and being alone is the only thing that relieves that pressure of feeling like I’m about to explode.

Sometimes I feel like I have to write. HAVE to. But when I start, I look at the words and just hate them. I loathe every letter and each syllable, and I just delete huge sections or entire documents. I rip out sheets of Moleskine and try to start fresh, but I usually can’t.

I think it has a connection to this other feeling — the one where I’m waiting for something. Maybe it’s someone, maybe it’s something, but either way, it’s a dead-end feeling. Because I’m impatient. I feel like I’ve waited long enough, so what the fuck am I still waiting for? And what if, in the end, this waiting feeling was just nothing at all? What then? I have to sit and realize that I’ve wasted countless hours? Sounds great.

I guess I’m just restless. Right now, extremely. In general, often.

Sometimes I look up at the door or window for no reason. It’s not like I heard a noise or something. I just randomly look towards them. What the fuck does that mean? Sometimes my dog will suddenly stare off into a corner when there’s nothing there. I’m pretty sure he’s not schizophrenic or anything, so what the fuck is he staring at? And if it’s a ghost, why the hell am I not allowed to see it, too?

Lately, I hate everything. There’s nothing I want to eat or do. No one I want to see. I don’t even want to go out and get floor-licking wasted and play Buck Hunter, which is really not like me at all. Usually I’m always up for a hunt and a shot. Lately? I don’t fucking know what I want. But I’m pretty sure it’s not to be sitting at home in this frozen city, miles and miles away from any city that could even remotely take me anywhere.

This, is not what I want.

What I want is out there somewhere, and I can’t seem to figure it out.


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