Gifted

“You just know they’re all fake.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“They all really hate each other, but it doesn’t much matter, because they act so kind to each others faces.  They just hate me because I don’t bullshit that way.”

“They think you’re joking.”

“Of course,” he said.  “That’s the beauty.  I can get away with saying anything I like and they take it as a joke.”

“Lucky bastard.”

He shook his head.  “It sucks.  Whenever I want to just piss off someone, they always take it as a joke.  A freaking joke.  I want to drive a stake into their soul and they think I’m just fucking around.”

I didn’t always pretend to understand how his mind worked, but he had me laughing.  “You’ve got a unique gift.”

3:56

Her head was against my shoulder.  I’d have to admit it was getting a bit painful, the pins and needles starting to run down my left arm, but I wasn’t about to wake her.

3:56 the clock read.  And I couldn’t sleep.

Even with the blinds shut, light still filtered in, casting odd shadows off my dresser.  My arm wasn’t the only thing feeling numb.

Too many thoughts went through my mind.  After a day spent firmly stuck on ‘idle,’ all I could think about was creating something.  Maybe it was a sort of self-validation.  Proof of existing.

I sighed.  What the hell was I thinking?  Why couldn’t I let go?  Questions without answers and without sources kept my eyes from closing, aided by a queasiness in my stomach.  Dread?

“Dream away,” I whispered.

Night

The night has always been a restless time for me.  I guess it’s natural for night to be a bit more bleak than the day.  There’s a sense of isolation from being awake at this hour.  While I know I’m nowhere near alone, especially on a Friday night, it feels like there’s just…nothing really left to do until morning.  Nothing with other people, at least.

It’s a time for pacing.  For stalking around a room, humming tunes and questioning where you might be headed.  That’s how I act.  I used to daydream about a lot of stuff when I was younger.  Silly fantasies.  Now?  Not so much.

I miss that a bit.  I miss being able to just go outside and lose myself in a story that doesn’t really go anywhere, but sort of exists perpetually.  If I could capture that in words, it would be amazing.  But words fail.  They can’t capture the feeling properly.  It comes off sounding stupid, when it’s really sublime.

Have you ever lost yourself in being someone else?  In being something more?  I doubt I’m alone in that.  But wow, how I wish I could recapture the feeling.

Unreliable

Truly, I must be one of the most unreliable individuals for posting to blogs.  Or responding to comments.  I forgot I changed up the theme to this page awhile back.  And now it’s 2:09 am and I find myself itching to write something — anything — to just…do something.

It’s summer, and usually I’m pretty productive during this time, but a lot of ambition seems to have faded.  There are a few events looming on the horizon, none of which are outright unpleasant, but neither are they thrilling.  Maybe I’m just hoping to put off the undesired by staying rather…dormant.

I feel like starting a new story.  What about?  I’m not sure.  I feel like toying with something realistic that’s more than a tiny vignette.  But then I don’t know if I’d have the attention span for it.  I rather think that my own life experiences haven’t been all that comprehensive up til this point.  Most of what I try to write in the realistic vein becomes some attempt at justifying my own social perceptions.

I’ve noticed a few things in life, though, rather recently that made me want to write, but as you can guess, I didn’t have a notepad on hand at the time.  So they’ve slipped away.  Still, it feels right to have my fingers on a keyboard.  The words just flow sometimes, even if they’re nothing important.  Just thoughts.  Random thoughts.  I guess this has become  a bit of a freewrite.

I’m taking a class about the coming of digital rhetoric.  It had us reading about information overload.  Writers used to struggle to capture everything they wanted to say, but now, as a result of all the various sources of information, the reader can’t process the amount of information being belted at them.

We have to post our thoughts on the material in a blog.  I wish I could make it more personal.  The damn thing doesn’t feel genuine.  It feels like a parody of a parody.  A blog about blogging, but not even that legit.  It’s meant to be a blog, a social forum for our class, but it comes off feeling fake because all that gets posted there are strict assignments.

Only four people are in the class, and as a result the comments aren’t exactly that abundant.

I have this damn english major tendency still haunting me.  I can’t speak simply.  Not on an assignment, at least.  I use big words, and fancy phrases, and so even when I try to write something I truly feel passionate about, it comes off looking like bullshit.  Mindless fluff.  The substance just gets leeched away by the arrogance of an academic tone.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.