Day 85

I really wish I had taken pictures of the smatchos or the gimlet I made myself this morning, technically this morning, the party kept going until about four in the morning or so. But I don't have anything like that, so I'm going to post some free form thought stuff.

I'm kind of afraid that I'll never stop writing about myself, and because of it I'll be stuck in a melancholy limbo for the rest of my time. I'm out of school in about a month and then I have to carve out a direction for myself. Its intimidating. I'm not that afraid of the next few years, I know I'll survive, but I'm afraid that I'll lose sight of improving myself and I'll stagnate, maybe never make it to the next stage, whatever that is. I'm afraid that I'll wake up three months out of school covered in dust and realize that I'm not doing anything at all, like I'm doing now. I write sometimes, and sometimes I go out, and sometimes I do this, but I've been feeling a deep lust for a new direction or angle to take me by the collar and shake me out of a funk thats begun to build up. I think that might be a new art to go toward. Painting has been appealing to me, playwriting has been fun, but that goes back to the community mindset. I don't talk to people, I'm intimidated by everyone, even my friends, the ones I've known for years. And I hate myself for it, dislike that I am so self-focused, I don't got out or talk because I'm afraid of new situations and upsetting the one I currently have, that I may lose the people I love and have spent so much time with if I change minor details I'll tip the scales and things will begin to dissolve. Which again is self-centered. I think about myself way too much, and I want to know how to start thinking about others, but then how to change twenty one and three-fourths years of an introverted mindset. Sometimes I get paranoid because no one I know has talked to me in days, no phone calls, no texts, and I think I'm being abandoned, instantly. Which is ridiculous, because it is a self fault, to have such fear of people that mean so much to you. I almost wish I could drop everything and try again with everyone, be better somehow. I don't know. Back when I smoked I used to walk to the loading tracks behind the spanish steel working shop, the one with the motion sensored light, and sit on the ties and wish that something would walk out of the bushes and let me know that something else was out there, something from story, something with six eyes and an open palm, bequeathing me into the darkness, or something with a mouth full of fangs that I could see, fight, or just get chased by, or even be killed by it, because I would know that there is something else out there, then the world that I don't get, that I don't feel all that connected to, full of people I can't quite seem to hold tight enough. Because then it would be okay, I would have a goal, to find it, that new place, that would be all I needed. I wonder about New York and Prague. I have a dream of smoking cigarettes with a typewriter in my backpack and handing stories to passer-bys on the street. I have a dream of living in a large place full of people that I love and that love me. I feel dead a little, I don't know, maybe I do. There is a distance that I'm not sure how to bridge. i want to stretch canvas, I want to buy spray paint and do psychedelic colored portraits to the people I love, I want someone to call me that is not my mother telling me that another relative is cancer and that she might be dying and she has lost something else, maybe the dog died. I just want to talk to someone, I want a hand on my back, I want to be quiet and to be held for a little while. I don't want to hide underneath my covers, I want to step onto a stage and show what I can do, but I have a guilt that is woven into me, that if I try and distance myself from anyone I have now, that I will never have anyone ever again, that it will be grade school all over again, and nothing will ever be right again. Nothing ever. If my mother died would I fall apart, like would my arm just drop off my shoulder? I don't think it would, but it would hurt a whole lot. I have to break a cycle. I thought that if I kept writing everyday that I would somehow feel accomplished, that it would force me to break something. I keep having dreams where I'm talking to doctors or teachers, ones that I make up, all with kind of the same hair cuts, and I ask them what to do, and they tell me, "Go to California." I used to be obsessed with marble statues, how artisans someone crafted slabs of blank grayness into smooth human-like forms. I remember my first trip to the art institute and walking in circles in that small room with all the pillars and reliefs. It was really cold in that room. I think I have to get mad, I have to get angry about something. That's what made me lose all of the weight to be so mad at my current self that I will be bread and water forever, that I will be running. Everything. I miss camping trips.