SO I Wrote - I don't mind people seeing my thoughts, comment if you want but these are just thoughts and feelings i vented.

So I wrote. I felt it fall out of me like I had opened a trapdoor inside myself. I had plenty to do yet I wanted to do none of it. I longed for one thing, a book, but found it out of my grasp. It was more than just a book, it was a story. I wouldn’t settle for any other, I wanted that one. Its words were beating inside of me, the story weaving in and out of my mind. I wanted to read that story, to let myself engulf it. I would fight against it of course. I didn’t want to consume it too quickly. I wanted to enjoy it like I would some edible dessert. But why could I settle for nothing less than reading this book? I had an urge to paint. It stuck to my mind, I needed to paint, but wanted to paint more so. It should be overriding my urge to read, especially since that goal is out of reach, but here I sit and write. I long for a story. Not to write but to read. To forget whose fingertips it fell off. To be surprised while I read and unsure of where it leads me. To not think, but enjoy and read. I don’t want to write a story for other people to enjoy; I want to read a story which will make me forget about the other which is on my mind, enough to fulfil the need to paint. I don’t want to push the story; I don’t want to know it. But as often as not I don’t know what I want, so am trapped doing nothing. I would like to right something like this, a story developing as I type. If only I could type as fast as I think and let the role-play of my imagination play out before me, but even that has foundations. What could I write? Like the play about nothing, I am lost in my own nothingness. If I made a new paragraph and chose to start writing, I would write: What should I write?1

She sat alone. Always alone. I am alone. Why alone. She shifted on the rock. The world is empty she thought to herself. Empty but for the bleakness which is me. I sit here tired and foggy, and wish that like that fog I would evaporate into the air and be lifted into the sky. But she only wishes. She feels the breeze as ever present as being alone. It whispers through her hair. She enjoys this feeling. It is like the feeling of being beautiful. The beautiful have wind whisper through their hair. And so she sits. And so, alone. With the wind. Whispers through her hair. She does nothing and in her mind is nothing like the world. She goes no where does nothing and is nothing. Her thoughts reach for nothing so go nowhere. Alone. Her feelings go blank for she feels like a sparkle of light in the bleak blackness. She wants to sing out. To fight for something, instead of just more nothingness. But in the end she is as she is always. Alone.2

My meaningless story, how I feel and write about how I feel. How I see how I feel. Shivers role down my spine because it is an intricate detail of the sad soul which is me. Only a piece of that piece of sadness, that haunted fragment, brought to life by the nothingness I feel. I do nothing, am nothing. The point is that since I’m not reading or painting, simply writing, my effort to do something so that I am something. Not nothing. Else I would lie on the bed, just lie, again alone, without a story or meaning, with no one else thinking of me in that exact moment of time. I become that spark in the dark, right before I flicker out and become nothing. 3

She had friends. Cute friends, hot friends, best friends, loyal friends, strong friends, weak friends, all friends. Animals, people and trees. Her dolls, which she was long past needing. Her friends had character and spark, were like brothers and sisters. United for a cause. There was love, like an entity that bound them. Her friends gathered around her, fought over her often, but were in general friends with each other. She couldn’t bear to loose any of them. She was not alone when with them. She was whole and they were a fire that burned at the darkness eating it away.
But the truth was that she had no friends like this. Especially when she retreated from the world, into her room. Becoming the angsty teenager she was, only behind closed doors. She had friends. People who came and went like seasons or leaves. They were bound by the entity of necessity, like all creatures of this world. It was the objects she loved. The trees, though they couldn’t love back. Was she materialistic? She often thought. To love those dolls she should have been long past loving? To seek comfort in her writing, or drawing? None of which was superb or brilliant or fulfilling in any way. 4

I try to find the heart of people, but am I willing to risk giving my heart away? I am lost in my own words. They twist around me, suffocating me with their grip around my chest. I feel depressed. I have increasingly repeated this statement lately. I am depressed at one moment, over the moon at the next. I will feel stupid reading over this later, probably soon, as slowly my heart is lifting.
I am interrupted in my contemplation. My sister comes in and I am happy. Not that she has lifted me in anyway. She has reminded me that there is a world out side of my shut bedroom door. I hear the echoes of a fight below. My brother seems to be having trouble right now. To sum it up, he’s acting like… A jerk.
I must leave. I am happier, no longer depressed about the lost story, not quite lost but out of my reach, just. Perhaps I am bipolar, to swing in and out of these moods at the flip of a hat. Perhaps I’m building myself up. A teenager thing. The world will end. Though I do not usually let myself succumb to such things.
I must go. I have done nothing fruitful, but have not lost my ember to the overwhelming darkness. A dark glimmer in my eyes.
And I have left, the story writing kicking back in, the cliché is back and I am happy. Though not gone, and gone. Not nothing, something, but no longer here.