i don't normally drink tea this regularly. i am on my second cup of the morning and i woke up at 10:30. it's now almost 1. it's in a bamboo designed cup and i feel strangely at ease and very much like my mother when i drink black tea out of her tea cups. she's on her second cup this morning too.
do you ever write differently because you know someone is reading it? i write that way. i never used to. cryptic writing was always my thing because i could still be honest without anyone knowing. is that even true honesty? in hamlet we were discussing how hamlet appears to be acting all different kinds of ways and how one is never really sure if he is ever himself. (that ambiguous bastard.) through the thick of discussion i sat with my fist under my chin thinking not about hamlet's characters but everyone else--specifically my own. i should have been a gemini, i think, because i feel like i have two sides to everything; not in a bad, you are two-faced sense but jumping from one character to another in a very non-multi personality kind of way. one can say they are truly themselves in certain situations or moments or even all the time but i don't think i can. i think i was really showing myself a long time ago but i feel so introverted now, which is strange and unsettling. it's small feeling. i don't like feeling small unless i try on a pair of jeans that are a size or two down from what i usually wear. i have gut feeling that everyone is judgmental and because we or i have changed so much that no one really likes who i am anymore.
this sounds so contrived and selfish. i don't need the validation. see, i am apologizing and rationalizing my own thoughts because someone else might think they are stupid. i am stupid for thinking that. normally someone can call me anything and i can say a big whatever followed by a who the hell are you kind of comment and shrug it off. but i am critically aware of everything i write and maybe that's why i don't anymore. i never wrote about him the way i wrote about the others. i never wrote about him until it was over. it was over before i really knew it was over or, rather, wanted to recognize that it was over. then i wrote. but it felt strange, unnatural, as if everything i said was wrong and awful. in the act of writing one separates themselves from their bodies and uses their rational minds to write their emotional experiences. it was like i separated myself further from that and divided my brain into half and pretended the rest didn't exist.
how do you get back in the groove as it were?
you just do.
it's like i am feeling my way around the dark again when all this time i thought it was light. my steps are tiny, my way of getting around to things is slow. it's all slow because i feel like i'm starting about again.
you won't get better til you get worse
