CW

Writing fiction is something I'm trying to start doing, at least for this class. My whole life up to here I've written poetry, something I haven't done in a while nonetheless, but fiction is foreign. My first attempt went sour, people didn't like "Sanity" as a character name, someone I dreamt up and upon waking sort of fell in love with, but I guess dreams don't translate well into real life. Or I don't know how to go about it properly yet. So now I'm writing a collage of my experiences, or some version of them. My biggest problem is trying to write too much. The more I write, it seems, the more I have to write. It's constantly a never ending story, which I don't mind, but that doesn't work well with deadlines. I need freshness, a new life. I've been feeling really restricted through my writing lately. I went back and read poems from high school and them seem so careless, so free, so flowing. The imagery is electric, pulsing through words like a life of it's own.


My beautiful is the hurt that keeps me warm,
The thistles in my heart like the daisies
that used to sway in my head. Love is
me twisting but that choking pain is
the heartbeat that will keep me alive

Where have I gone?
I used to see life in death, make joy from hurt. Even in my darkest years I could arrange flowers on a page from bloody feelings. Now, I feel...numb. Like I've been running away from myself for almost 3 years. Now when I look inside, I don't know who I am. I just see a ghost of what I used to be and everything else is empty, bored, frightened, lazy. I can't stand to think how I'll become if I keep this up. I need to escape, become someone knew, look into my roots and find what really makes me tick again. I need to clean my room.