If You Need Me I’ll Be In The Forest, Searching For Portals To Another Dimension,

A Series Of Analogies And Bitterness

 I am a writer. This is more an affirmation than a statement of fact. I’m not sure if you’ve ever done that thing where you make a list of affirmations before. I have. Did it last week. I’m seeing a counselor for my depression and anxiety. The idea was to create a list of true statements about myself, good things. The fun part is that you don’t always believe them.

 The statement “I am a writer” is an affirmation because while it is objectively true, I struggle to believe it. Of course I’m a writer. I love writing stories and journals. I’m a creative writing major. Writing is my everything. It’s cheesy, but it’s true. I write to cope, celebrate, vent, relax, everything. You may be wondering now “if she’s obviously a writer, why can’t she believe it?” Well, nameless reader, I can’t believe it because, for the past two weeks, I have written a grand total of 20 pages.

 Writing is my everything, and yet I find myself scooped out like a goddamn pumpkin. Actually, no, because a pumpkin has a chance to become a grinning jack o'lantern. I’m scooped out like a grave. There is nothing beautiful left in me. Just something putrid and rotting. I am full of dead ideas and wriggling maggots that are gnawing at my finger bones as I try in vain to squeeze life out of a bloated corpse called creativity.

 This is all I can do now. I can type. I type out words that are close to truth and I settle. I settle because I’ve lost everything. Sure, I’ve got family and most of my health and I’ve got food and I’ve got an education. But what’s the point? I live to write and vice versa. What’s the point if I can’t do the one thing I’m certain of?

 I am haunted by blank word documents. They’re always on my screen. I type out a line and delete it because it goes nowhere. Lines are supposed to be infinite. It’s a fact of math class that actually stuck with me. Just because we only see part of the line, doesn’t stop it being infinite. My lines aren’t infinite. They lay on the page, just a collection of letters that happen to form some statement or action that would be better articulated by a child’s rag doll.

 I’ve officially hit 21 pages in two weeks. Brilliant. 

 Hell is real, and it is a room full of blank pages and flashing cursors.

I am a friend to all cats. Yes even the mean ones. They have their reasons.

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

more of my chemistry professor (and wizard)

I could actually write an essay defending Frodo Baggins as a character and why he’s an exceptional and profound protagonist, but nothing can sum up my feelings better than this person on pinterest who said, “he is a hero and a polite little dude, what more could you want?”

I Will Wait For You At The Challenger Deep

"being in the military is hard" theres harder things. Like telling my mom she was wrong about something

i do think theres something sad about how largely only the literature that's considered especially good or important is intentionally preserved. i want to read stuff that ancient people thought sucked enormous balls

If u want to write a story about a character that's just you but hotter with a dark twisted backstory and magical powers and a pet falcon or something, I think u should just go ahead and do that. Who's gonna stop you? The government?? Fuck the police.

god i love coming home and being at home and sitting inside my home and staying home