I love short stories. I used to be able to write. I never wrote short stories though, I almost never had the ability to, without turning them into longer stories that I could never finish.
Now I have no motivation, or feel that I have no inspiration or creativity to write as I did. What do I have to write? My life has become so mundane, and honestly, quite pessimistic/passive that I don't give many things long thoughts anymore.
I never felt that I had the ability to write so well as to be published, or anything of the sort. I haven't finished reading a book in a long time either.
when I write, I don't want something cliche. Last time I wrote something, it was an 8 page letter about some psychotic girl who drove another psycho girl to suicide, went to her funeral, and bathed herself in the blood of the dead girl. Creepy I know. It wasn't even written that great.
I kind of miss being pulled into drama,because drama and dreams often gave me reason to write. I don't have the time or energy to anymore, nor many friends of mental worth to actually read with the expectation of them finishing reading or understanding it.
What makes a good story? Must I write or have I become too normal and plain? Too boring?
I feel like Sylvia Plath's story "The Wishing Box:
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
My Dreams Were All Dead And Buried
My dreams are speaking too much to me about my subconscious fears.
Anyway, I got to see the baby and my family, I love them so much.
I'm so low on money it's crazy and depressing.
I hope to live a great fabulous life, but who knows, I just have to persevere.
I'm so tired.
I don't have time for poetry right now.
Goodnight.
Anyway, I got to see the baby and my family, I love them so much.
I'm so low on money it's crazy and depressing.
I hope to live a great fabulous life, but who knows, I just have to persevere.
I'm so tired.
I don't have time for poetry right now.
Goodnight.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Hollow
With the slightest
touch
You're ablaze
yet
There's nothing left in
the ocean
A rippled wave.
Reach out for a hand
Drawing back.
The exchange of words
Often slack.
From
nothing.
To
something.
Pulse and pressure
Take
these.
Off me.
Do I measure?
Something will always be missing
When it comes to this
Is it the lack of interaction
Maybe what's left
is
Significance.
touch
You're ablaze
yet
There's nothing left in
the ocean
A rippled wave.
Reach out for a hand
Drawing back.
The exchange of words
Often slack.
From
nothing.
To
something.
Pulse and pressure
Take
these.
Off me.
Do I measure?
Something will always be missing
When it comes to this
Is it the lack of interaction
Maybe what's left
is
Significance.
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