901-921
Balance the time. Minimize the daydreaming when my hands aren't working on anything. It is possible to daydream while dabbing paint on a canvas or while letting fingers fly past on a keyboard (a typewriter a computer screen, the meticulous white out process that I will never have to deal if I become a famous author) Muggy, warm, dusty and crowded. There are green things sprouting purple things and the scent is fantastic but I'm no botanist. One day I'll figure it out. I'll dip my foot in the river and realize the strength of the current, only then will I jump, or stay on shore. (It will be just fine). I throw a stick into the river and it glides easily over treacherous rocks and offshoots, my body is bigger than that and less buoyant I would be crushed against the rocks with ferocity. But my brittle bones must take the abuse so I can get on to calmer waters. The current is strong enough that at a point, in an effort at energy conservation, one may need to simply float on their back and watch the sky. (Constantly. I keep erasing sentences I don't like. I'm comparing myself to others now and my "subconscious" writing suffers. Write from the heart and fuck those dissenting classmates.)
In that case. Hide away your pretensions. You people are the same and I hate to voice my humble opinion among these intellectual vultures, they will pick your bones dry and use your story as an example for what not to do. (They said good luck and shook hands. They lied and said they won't be able to sleep now that their 12 page stories are out there. I read them, sure. Inescapable my disdain for the two. But I will try to be distanced from their awful characters (the authors themselves) when I write my reviews.
Daddy's little girl. Crush up the story into a ball and believe that a decrepit old house is more interesting than dinosaurs. The other talks like she knows all. Like she is Merriam Webster. (Keep the initial in the name). Confusion ambiguity. The mimetic fallacy. I fell victim to all of these and my story suffers and I haven't even looked at it since their reviews came back. Why?
Imagine the promiscuity, my humble servant, on mountaintop. Writing poetry out of wedlock and extinguishing fires of dissent. Turn off that damned editor. I nearly changed that last sentence already because I hate the construction of that metaphor. My god, I'm becoming a monster.
Have more sex, my chaste queen, with boys feeding grapes and fan her off her high throne. If you knew how tortuous the existence through these badlands could be for someone like little old me. The wounded boy effect. Pity me for I will be yours. My scars show in tan skin and bigger muscles. (I look exactly the same because I don't fucking drink protein. It turns you into a douche.) Workout twice a god damn day?
Okay. Calm down. Derail that train of thought.
Move to brighter things. Things that vibrate warmth in the sun.
Things that shock and awe in all the right ways.
Realized I still haven't dressed or finished breakfast.
These mornings are such blurs that I never understand how 830 becomes 930
Discuss party and make flyers potentially.
Roommate's face.
For his birthday.
Like mitch-a-palooza
But I feel the tinging regret
that I know ill never do this.
I must make an effort at invitations.
Girls?
Or else all goes to shit and the weekend remains the same as it has always been.
This one is the last one before spring break.
Mimosa's in the morning.
We have to rise like phoenixes.
And damn it. We will make memories.
I will not feel stupid and small and worthless.
