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here, the depths of my mind, exposed to all |
writing... it seems so freeing. compelling, to put my mind's words to a page. my moods rise, and fall, quiet worrying, outright agitation, lapsing into weariness, as ceaseless as the tide. i'm compressed by them. compelled by them. they move me to . . . inaction. my work, once ceaseless, so much that i'd worked, and taught myself and learned to do well, now has come grinding to a halt. and i am at the mercy of myself. relentless, blind, unknowing, unforgiving, the cruel evils of a persona that i've never sought to embody have found a form in an abstract construct which now torments me, and i feel it's somehow . . . happy. fulfilled, as my work used to make me, leaving me wracked, my mind and muscle frail, my heart, aching. my bones, aching. my body tense as a wire, i can focus on nothing that i should be happy about. i only worry now. worry. worry. worry. why can't i control what i'm doing to myself? it moves me to tears, to put it to paper. perhaps writing it will help. but when i write on my work, my novel, i grieve. just as i grieve now. will nothing relieve me of this? |