Foolish Dreams

She read the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. So honest, so sincere. She could see how she might have been the inspiration. But she didn't know how much of that was her projecting how she felt into his words. It was written about someone, that much he had said. Any why couldn't they be about her? She wanted them to be. To have some sign that her feelings were being reciprocated, even a little bit.

To Write

I can't write poetry or lyrics. Hand me a guitar and tell me to outline a song and I'm lost. Force me into the confines of a structure and I falter. I freeze, my mind goes blank, and I might start to cry. I've tried dozens of times to write a limerick, sonnet, or haiku. My song lyrics come out as drivel. I simply do not possess those skills. The people who do never cease to amaze me.

No music. No poetry. No lyrics. Where does that leave me? It leaves me with the spoken word. Prose. Senseless ramblings, mainly. Sometimes, they develop into a pattern of sorts, but it's pretty rare. I don't think in eloquent phrases. I don't write rhymes that can both bring a smile to your face and cause your heart to wrench. I just...write. It's for me, mostly. Writing helps me sort ouf how I feel - something I struggle with daily - and sometimes assists me in releasing some of the stress and tension that I put on myself. Putting a pen to paper (or fingers to a keyboard) is often all it takes for me to relax, unwind, and get in touch with myself again.

Inspiration is a funny thing. It can come from a word I hear on the radio. A phrase I come across in my dreams. A memory once considered lost. A scent, an image, a stray emotion. A what-if that is out of control. It can hide from me for months, and then sneak up and knock me on my ass. It can control my thoughts, forcing me to lose focus on everything else in the world. It can cause me to lose sleep. I wish I could bottle inspiration up and save it for when I actually had time for it. Alas, that's not the way the world works. I take it when it comes, hate it when it's absent, and always wonder when I will see it again.

If you hate what I write, that's alright with me. I may be too honest for you. I might have an opinion that is in stark contrast to yours. You may think I am too emotional, or too logical, or crazy, or heartless. You may see my need to write in order to discover how I feel as a weakness. And that's okay. You see it how you want to. I see it as the easiest and cheapest way to guarantee my own sanity. I'm sorry if what I write offends you, makes you feel uncomfortable, or seems a little bit too honest and personal. Trust me, it's just a tiny bit of what's going on in my head. Scary thought, right?

12:45pm 10.11.10

What's Wrong?

He raised his head from the table and groggily looked around the room. What time was it? The ever-helpful clock on the wall said it was almost 2am. That didn't seem right, but he trusted the clock better than his own judgment at the moment. He saw on the table beer cans...everywhere. He wasn't sure how many were there. He didn't want to count. However many it was, it wasn't enough to make him feel better or to help him forget. He rested his head in his hands. His head hurt. He raised his head again after a few minutes, pushing his disheveled hair out of his face. It fell right back in to his eyes. He reached for the phone and scrolled to her name in his contact list. It wasn't there. Damn it. He had deleted her number in a moment of finality a few hours before. He'd known it for years, but his mind was a little too fuzzy to come up with the right digits.

The Joy of Feeling

I feel confused. Lonely. Broken. I feel lost inside my own mind. Trapped in a labyrinth I created, with no Ariadne to show me the way out. I feel doomed to wander in my own mind, prey to my own demons, hopelessly alone. But I don't want to be alone. No. For the first time in a long time, I don't see myself being happy alone. Like I'm missing something I didn't even know I should have.

I...don't know.

Shame on me for wanting you the way I fantasize about.

Shame on me for letting myself fall for you. I know better. I don't fall. Hell, I rarely crush. I'm always too busy. Too introverted. Too depressed. Too lost in my own head. I hate that world, but at least I'm comfortable there. This new world. These butterflies. This constant desire to know you better. To know what makes you tick. To get inside your head. It makes me a little queasy. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. It's definitely outside my own little world, that's for certain.