I cannot say that "I haven't written lately" as my job requisites that I be able to express critical and original thought daily. Yet, why do I feel so constricted? It is an intangible feeling of being bound by something that I cannot see or feel. Yet I know it is there. I wonder if it has something to do with the silence that I have imposed upon myself lately. I have opted to quiet my thoughts, to focus upon myself and my immediate surroundings.
For a while, I was able to feel a bit of peace. It was...lovely. I suppose. Yet even with the lull of peace in my thoughts, it was there, it the pit of my stomach--the knowledge that I am frustrated about something again.
Is it something new? Is it something that has always been with me? The disquiet in my soul stirs much thought. I have that urge again, to close my eyes and imagine endless fields...to see myself running across them with not a care for the world. How I wish it was so. That I could spread my arms and run as carefree and as fast as my stubby legs could manage.
My mother will be returning from her vacation tomorrow. I'm certain that she has many a wonderful tale to share.
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I've always been proud of the fact that I am most honest when I am writing. I wonder if there is anything else that I wish to say...
Yes. There is.
I am...angry.
To what it is directed at, I am uncertain.
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There is a dull ache I bear. The kind that doesn't leave...at least, not permanently. Why do I feel so unsettled? I would be simple if I could just stop caring about things that people tell me aren't important anyway. Yet I often find myself wondering, who are they to tell me what is or isn't important? Our minds aren't the same. What if the things they deem to be a nuisance are focal interests to me?
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I feel that there is a ruthlessness in me that I am not surprised nor wary of.
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Artifice. Pretense. Sleight. Stratagem.
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I want you to burn.
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Time of me to take a deep breath.
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