I have a distinct feeling to be doing many and multiple things right now--smoking a cigarette, running, cutting myself, putting pen to paper in a prolific attempt to make sense of just one more part of myself--but none of those ideas seem to fulfill whatever it is I'm searching for at this hour.
Outside seemed the place to be as I sweatily rolled around the quilts and the comforters and the pillows on my bed, but outside isn't as cold as I would like to be and I still feel unfulfilled.
So what is it I'm looking for?
The fact that I'm blogging this shames me as these feelings and words are too... sacred... for the cyberspace cacophony. The scratching of ballpoint to wood pulp would please me so much more but why waste these feelings on trash?
I am being mercilessly forced to read my work in front of my class tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to it.
Fuck, I don't want to talk about class I don't want to talk about anything I want to do I want to be I want to
Unnerving; restlessness that ceases to let go of me and the repetitive line of wishes, wishes, wishes right now have an alarming grasp on
innerworkings mental activities does it really matter.