Nothing creative for a title. Creativity needs replenishing.

The heaviness is gone - along with my irritated (and likewise irritating) mood. I can behave like such a four year old sometimes. Its good to be brought low again though, to be reminded to look upwards and away from myself.

I wouldn't call myself proud of the blood I extracted from the stone, but the writing was adequate and so I can be at peace. Sometimes I suppose we have to settle for adequate. At least its finished, and I can focus my attention on the other things I have in front of me. Like preparing for Clash, working on my portfolio, reading my Econ and Constitution books. And indulging in a second read of Twilight, since the movie is coming out and I can have a reason.

I really want to scribble down absent minded thoughts for my fiction stories (the tragic, romantic and unrealistic - my favorite ones) it always makes me so happy. My propensity for day dreaming has decreased drastically, which on on hand is a good thing since I can get through work and school, but on the other hand makes me sad. Imagination has become shy; I confined and restrained her for so long that she lingers in the shadows and I miss my old friend.

Almost finished with Vilette, I love Charlotte Brontë so much. Still, and I want to read Jane Eyre again but I won't. I have to finish Ivanhoe and The Scarlet Letter.

Still in a Brontë kind of mood.

Im so frustrated, and on the verge of giving up. Except I know I can't give up, and I don't even want to, so I sit here and continue trying to force ideas out of my head that I could translate into sentences and paragraphs which are much easier to edit and craft when they exist in the first place. Im stuck, and it's driving me nuts. It's not just the inevitable and commonplace writer's block, but more than that - almost a lack of the courage to write. Why is that part of my mind holding back? What reason on earth do I have for being afraid to put something down - when I don't even have a coherent 'something' to write in the first place? Im even more irritated by being so confused about myself. I'm me, you'd think I would get it.

I guess I do kind of get it, sort of. I know part of where the lack of courageous enthusiasm is coming from, but it still doesn't seem to match up with everything, and theres no obvious solution telling me, "fix this and then it'll be okay".

I bet this makes no sense whatsoever, and every time I write something like this I will usually copy it into a document and delete it from my page, so it can still exist, just in my own little corner. But I don't feel like it. (the lack of enthusiasm is morphing into laziness. I hate that.)

I wonder where this desire for self expression comes from. Why do I want to write this all out, and keep it somewhere (even if no one else would see it)? Most other people don't really care what you are thinking, even if occasionally they do enjoy satisfying their curiosity by hearing your thoughts, or feeling affirmed that they can identify with your position and that they are not the only ones who feel that way. But why this urge to explain and display the inner workings of your mind? I wonder I wonder.

Headache

Im tired. Words bother me. Im irritated by reading them and writing them. Im going to go paint.