(writing workshop) Stream of Conciousness [And-Darling]
2007-05-31 -- 7:08 p.m.

Brush your teeth,

and then glance towards the scale.

Step on it, out of curiousity, just to see if you've lost

anything else besides everything around you.

No. Nothing.

It reads 100 pounds of living flesh,

feeling rather-- empty at the moment.

Hollowed out like a pumpkin.

Halloween is coming-- favorite time of the year, you think.

The only time you never really felt alone. Not like this, anyway.

Even when you went trick or treating by yourself.

What kind of person does that?

Me, you say to yourself, spit out what's inside of your mouth.

Rinse. Repeat.

With the sudden rise of feeling, comes the contentment

of simply being-- another stretch into the philosophy of existentialism;

the act of realizing that there is nothing more but being.

No purpose in life... But to live and die.

So could you do it? Take that extra step foreward and simply

live on that dying whim of when and where and how you like it, the way

you like it-- knowing very well you could take it inside of your own hands.

Yes.

You're sure you don't need anyone else.

Yes.

You could play it by ear.

Get an education, quit your job,

get a new career-- start fresh, new, fall in love, fall out of love, have sex,

drink, smoke, play, and then apologize when you find out that you've ruined

someone else's existence. But it's never your fault.

No.

They chose it.

Everyone chooses nowadays.

And then you stop and wonder why it is you choose to be such a sad little woman.

No, not a woman-- but a girl. Still young enough to have a second chance

at this objectable and slightly unknown word deemed "happiness".

But that's just the thing, you begin to conclude, I am me, and I have

the power to change who I am, to break and correct-- fall and rise.

You're light, pretty enough to get noticed once in awhile,

not as dumb as most other females, clever-- if you will. You have a certain

spunk, blush when complimented, compliment the truths, make friends,

lose friends-- draw. You can sing, you can dance despite how awful it makes

you feel sometimes... You can create with those little hands that were meant

for playing piano-- an instrument you'll probably never learn to play,

or end up taking up at the age of fifty inside of your little house

with that typical-- no, not typical-- you'd be the only person

on the block with a black iron fence covered in roses and ivy.

A crazy old thing who bakes cookies children adore, but parents are always

a little weary of.

Make a story.

Day dream.

And then you critisize yourself, because you can never get farther

than a certain point-- as if your creativity stops. Blocked by some unseen

barrier that's been holding you back all these years from truly feeling alive.

Every time you grasp it, it leaves.

Take control of the situation...

Yes.

Yes...

And then you tell yourself that it is possible to be alive.

Live and love and learn and die.

Sounds like quite the plan-- you finish off.

Wash your face, sit down, and write everything you just thought about--

making it personal in such a way that might confuse the reader.

Even yourself as you go over it.

What on earth am I thinking?

I'm thinking about you.

- Ayian @ And-Darling

Want more meticulous bullshit? Visit my diary And-Darling. I whine more than an out-of-tune violin.