>I fear that it has been in the moments that I reach this blank page, with this blinking cursor cursing my thoughts and me, that I draw question marks in place of what I would have hoped to have been writing. My words cease to be eloquent as they leave my mind. It’s like leaving the your sleeping bag at home for a camping trip; you’re stuck outside, sleeping beneath the countless stars without that cushion of knowing that if you rolled over, you would still be in your little bag, and safe from an ant pile.
But.. here I am, wallowing in my figurative ant pile. It’s dreadful to have to feel as if I am purging thoughts from my cerebrum. My brain should only have to work this hard whilst sitting behind a desk and computing numbers too large to make sense. Perhaps it would be easier to write about how difficult life has been lately, but I would rather save those thoughts for some later post or maybe come to realize that life really has not been as difficult as I’ve made it out to be.
Oh, I could possibly delve into how I have found new music to tickle my ears – Local Natives, The Last Royals, Manchester Orchestra, Sleeping At Last… but see, you don’t really care. So, is that what it all comes down to? The little pieces of thought to this jigsaw-ish writing that question themselves to the point of death?
This insecure dilemma has left my writing feeling like a scene from Fight Club. I read another’s thoughts on life, love and the sorts, and I realize how incredibly elementary-like my words form themselves. I then draw the conclusion that it is, probably, because I have yet to read a piece of literature that will spark my mind. The only novel that gets me to write like my mind is leaking creativity is The Special Topics in Calamity Physics, which typically leaves me walking, talking, writing, and living in a metaphoric state. It’s slightly scary, honestly.
I think I just need a vacation. One of those vacations where you forget that there is such a thing as humanity, but eventually miss human contact at some point. Yes. Good thing that is what I am getting to do at the beginning of June. I’ll reconnect myself with the Atlantic Ocean, the sun and its warmth – Illinois does not understand that concept – and sand hot enough to scorch my tiny toes. I plan on taking my leather bound journal (of course I have one, courtesy of Chelsea) in order that I may store my leaking thoughts.
Maybe then, just maybe, I will have rolled out of the figurative ant pile and have nice, secure thoughts to plant and to entertain.