There was so much pretending going on...

I really feel that one of the most significant relationships of my life is coming to an end.
Perhaps it was gradual, but it feels sudden.

I don't know what it's going to be like to go from feeling like I've always had a partner, to being completely alone, but I have to prepare for it, because it's happening.
I feel it slipping away.

I'm not really sure what I did or why it's happening, but it is.

And I, the person who takes a shot at herself whenever she can, can't say that I deserve it.
But I also can't say that this person ever deserved me.

To hell with it.

'I ain't no good at this...'

'I ain't no good at this at all.
And even if you are good at it...what exactly are you good at?'

I've never suffered from writer's block.
There's never been a time when once sentence couldn't be followed by another, a time when I don't know what comes next.
To me, what's really difficult is keeping what comes after that out...keeping it out until it's time.
I've never thought of myself as a person who is unable to focus on details.
I always thought I noticed things that were important and some things that were not.
However, I'm starting to wonder if for me, important details are not sometimes snuffed out by the big picture.

I see the end before anything else.
I always have.
To me, there is nothing more important than the way something ends.
The path only leads you to where you end up, to the purpose, to the theme...to the truth.
To me that's what makes a story different from life...the ability to see the end and derive meaning from it.
I think that's what makes living hard for me and probably for most people.
We see where we want to end up, but we can't see the path, nor can we see where we really will end up. Getting there would be so different if we only knew where we were headed.

I kind of wish it were as easy as using Matrix-like technology.
I'd flutter my eyelashes and the whole would spill onto the page in the proper order, that it would make sense and allow others to see what I see.
But it doesn't work that way.
It's about execution and it's difficult to execute order in a jumbled storm of ideas, one bleeding constantly into the next.
"Are you like a crazy person?"
Why yes, I am.

No matter how I do it, whether through writing or by some other means, I just want to make people think, feel, and understand.

Write what you know. Write what you know. Write what you know...

Physical abuse, rape, murder, grief, lust, love, suicide...
I've written about all of these things, but do I really know anything about them?
Not really.

I wouldn't call myself a person who is not easily inspire and last night, I experienced a flash of inspiration, something that convinced me to change the way I was doing things.
I finished the first chapter of my novel and I am now writing "what I know," for the first time in my life.
Yes, a more extreme version of what I know, because it wouldn't be interesting otherwise, but what I know just the same.

I was worried about the way I was executing it in the beginning, but I think it's coming together in a way I like now. I'm not sure if a unique quality is good or bad in this case, but I have a good feeling about this one.

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^ This is the imaginary line of songdom.
No one reads these blogs, in part because I have never promoted them. I thought I would start, but knowing that so many people around me hate my songs and poems, and they should, I thought I'd create an imaginary line of song/poemdom, so if they want to stop reading, they can.

Okay...new one.
Written about five seconds ago.

I can’t read your mind
I wish I could
It’d be best for both of us if you could say
What you want not what you should

I dream in pale whites
And vivid reds
In ‘maybe tomorrow’s
And ‘should’ve said’s

Your mind is plagued by thoughts
Of someone it shouldn’t be
But it’s not me
No, it’s not me

Take those words and let them out
’Cause I don’t care if they hurt me
When you keep them all inside
It’s not just them that can’t be free

I don’t know what you need
And you won’t tell me
And trying to make you
Is born of my greed

I keep things to myself
You’re not the only one
When the truth is surfacing
I’m the type to run

We’re two of a kind
What can we do
When you’re the best of me
And I’m the worst of you

We could take our words and let them out
And hope the truth would set us free
When we keep them all inside
It’s hurting you, it’s hurting me

Let’s take our words and let them out
And hope the truth will set us free
When we keep them all inside
It’s hurting you, it’s hurting me

Haven't written a song in a while, but sometimes I can't keep them down.

I call this one "A Little Shelter."

All I see is darkness
Save for one bright light from you
All I see are rain clouds
But you're the sun that's breaking through
Thought I would be shipwrecked
But then I saw your shore
Thought my heart was frozen
But you warmed me to my core

Could you help me through the darkness
Could you guide me through this storm
'Cause I am cold and I am lonely
And fear without you I'll not see the morn
Could you spare a little shelter
In a warm welcoming place
For I've withered down to nothing
So I won't take up much space

Let me be your sunlight
Show you how you glow like gold
Let me take care of you
When you break down and grow old
Let me keep you sailing
Worry not about the shore
When I have no more to give you
I'll find a way to give you more

I could help you through the darkness
I could guide you through this storm
When you're cold and feeling lonely
And fear you will not see the morn
I can spare a little shelter
And you can fill my empty space
'Cause you're the only thing worth something
In this godforsaken place

What I choose to do is of no concern to you and your friends.

Where I lay my head may not be my home, but I will last on my own.
'Cause it's me and my life.
It's my life.


I interviewed today to be a photographer with Olan Mills.
Although it's closer to what I want to do than working at the Chamber, it made me realize how far off my course I've taken myself and it makes me wonder how many of us live wasted lives with real passion buried somewhere inside.

The interview went well, aside from my moments of hesitation at the questions, "Do you like children?" and "Do you like to drive?"
I lied, but I almost wish I hadn't.

I'd earn three dollars per hour less than I'm currently making, but mostly I worry about it being full time.
I was getting ready to take my mom's suggestion and turn one of my two new screenplay ideas into a novel first. She thinks that once I'm published, it might be easier to get a screenplay deal and she's right.
But when will I have time to write?

People never turn out the way you imagine they will.
Why should I be any different?