I find myself in immense fear of being alone, but really I shouldn’t be afraid. If it’s meant to happen, it will be inevitable. That’s the brilliance of life. You can fight it, you can run from it, you can even alter it but eventually everything will fall into it’s rightful place. I’m just here to ride out the storm and hope for calmer waters. I’ll face monsters in these treacherous waters but I will not be defeated. I can not be defeated.
There are a lot of things I need to change. There are a lot of things I need to focus on. My writing being one of them. How will I ever write my book if I don’t sit down and try? I can complain and bitch and blame everything for my lack of focus, but at the end of the day I am the only one ruining my focus. I am my own worst enemy, my harshest critic, my own demon. I need to learn to fight harder and not things get the best of me. My demons don’t deserve the best of me. Only I deserve the best of me.
All the answers are in front of me, only they don’t look like answers at all. They all look like problems that I must sort through and figure out. It’s a step by step process that I have to complete. I’ll eventually get the hang of it.
Sometimes it’s critical that I remove myself from everyone. My mind gets clouded and I can’t think straight. It’s not for lack of wanting company or friendship, it’s wanting to escape the fog.
I just want to emerge a better person.
I find myself at a point of destruction. Do I crash and burn or fight and survive? Sometimes it seems all to easy to give up. After all, I’d rather crash than fight.
There is a character I invented a long time ago. His name was Zaki. I say was because never again will I use him in anything. I became attached to him. Some of you will never understand a writers relationship with their characters, so it’s ok.
He was a piece of me that I didn’t even realize I created. He was an out loud person. Someone who spoke their mind freely. He was dirty and perverted, always centered on the sexual aspect, never on love. Is easier to be sexually involved rather than emotionally. He drank to fill a null and void in his life and he was careless and reckless with his life.
This may not be me exactly, but I poured my heart and soul into this character and made him real in my mind. He was the male version of me.
I hate that. I hate that I take parts of myself and give it to this imaginary people on pages. I hate that my mind and my souls gets to live in these characters who have lives I’d love to live.
I often wonder what it would be like if I could be one of my characters. I’d be prettier. I’d be skinnier. I’d love more freely. I’d travel. I’d be what I wanted to be.
Then I realize something.
I can be all that I want to be. I have control over all of that. I can work harder to be smaller. I could take a little extra time to look pretty. I could let people get a little close to me. I could save money and take more trips. Only, it’s easier to just write other peoples lives instead of my own.
To be honest, I don’t really know where I was going with this. I think I just needed to get some things out of my mind. My head has been hurting a lot lately. Maybe too many pent up thoughts?