There is a passionate anxiety to writing. People who don't feel the pull to create can't possibly imagine this feeling. It's an almost manic scrawling... the need to find any close scrap of paper to capture that perfect phrase that makes an appearance while in line at the grocery store. Some days, I feel as though I'm close enough to madness to prick my own finger simply to use my own blood as ink.

There are some thoughts that are immediately censored before they find their way onto a more permanent medium. My mind is full of darkness and anger just as surely as it is filled with happiness and light. My thoughts seethe in my brain, a blackened cauldron bubbling over a glowing fire of rage and bitterness. These are the thoughts that I can't give literary birth to, for doing so may ignite a small seed in me that chills me to the bone.

The angel and devil on my shoulders are very pronounced. It's an almost visual tug of war between them... do the right thing, the socially acceptable thing, or do what I want. Be the person that I want to be, world be damned, or continue to act in moral and upstanding ways that don't seem to suit me.

It's hard to live a life that's full of contentment when you're living it for other people. I'm so appreciative of the loved ones in my life that support me for who I am and what I want... not who they think I should be and what they would do in my situation. In my experience, people like that are few and far between.

Do I have a point? No. I'm writing just to write; the itch to create this evening far exceeded the fact that I have nothing to say. I'm trying to make sense out of a life that has been on hold a lot lately; trying to turn inaction into the right sort of action that will take me further along the road towards where I want to ultimately end up. The problem is, I don't know where I want to end up. Sometimes the journey is best part.

This entry was posted by Mellie, on Monday, November 13, 2006.