This Sucks. A Lot.

I remember now why I write inconsistently, as I have for as long as I can remember. I have several journals, all only half-filled, with months, even years of my life missing. Pages ripped out, in hopes of forgetting memories all too vivid.

And yet, this is all I know to turn to. I'm not a big talker. I'm an observer. A great listener. My creativity limited. Which, in essence, makes the writing more a need instead of a want. I need a release, and this is the only way I know to get it.

  What I hate about it, writing, is that it draws out the characteristics of mine that I've always tried to hide. The sensitivity, earnesty, perceptivity, all of which have always made me feel much older than my years and often misunderstood.

 So I try to find the happy things to write about. To bring some balance. Lighten the mood. But I just end up staring at a blank page. I'm not saying that  I'm not happy, because for the most part, I am. Those that know me know that I love to laugh and make people laugh. But those happy things are expressed easily, daily. It's the horrible, painful, uncomfortable  things, that I can't speak of that burden my soul for expression.

It's weird to write about writing. But it's the only thing on my mind. How hard it is. How freeing it is. How much I need it.  I'm unable to sleep, my body captive to my mind's restlessness.

The problem: I keep trying to make it pretty. I knew better when I titled the blog. It's ugly. And it sucks. But true, and necessary. And as long as I try to clean it up, I remain sleepless, anxious, robbing myself of the cathartic release.

So, no more of that. For freedom's sake. For sanity's sake. For truth's sake.