|Blogs > rm_atman888 > My point on Infinity|
It's curious to me why it's so much easier to type on here than it is on my myspace blog. I find that therapy through writing is a truly remarkable side effect of being a writer. But sometimes I can't force the issue, and I must endure through the writer's block.
I guess the block I'm currently facing isn't that difficult to get by, just find another venue of expression. Unfortunately I have a blabber mouth and already told someone about this blog. I tried to keep it to myself, but the more I thought about it, the less I felt inclined to keep it a secret.
After all, if a thing can not grow in the light, it should not grow at all. Am I right?
So here I am. Aware of all the many people breathing down my neck for one reason or another, and vaguely familiar with the contempt I feel for myself at the moment.
It's as if their were a poking prodder behind me following me constantly, but the poking and prodding no longer effect me. Instead I just get annoyed by the constant threats of pokes and prods. Painfully aware of the eventual prodding that will hurt. The pendulum swinging over me in my pit constantly.
Strange how one finds themselves thinking about high school novels one read. "The Pit and the Pendulum" and "The tell-tale heart" never seemed appealing to me then. Now, they are all I can think of sometimes. I guess when a story works, it works. Much like an understanding. When you've got it, it's there. Ain't nothin' you can do bout' it.
I'm just tired. Tired of being... stuck. Being mired in this constant worry. I mean, what happened to believing in oneself? Does that just go out the window when hope dies?
I hate to sound like such a cry baby whiner, I'm really not. I've just got such a low level of understanding right now, that everything else just seems... below my interest.
I focus very narrowly right now, and when I finally do hone in on something were paying attention to or doing... it's no longer worth it. I'm out of time, out of synch.
So I wait. I wait for circumstances to change, for life to bring me another pit stop, and for people to rearrange themselves around me. Social lives tend to do that, afterall. They come and go with the tides of the moon, and they rise and fall like the leaves on the wind. I just hope the next tempest is not such a whirlwind.