Got to 41K yesterday. Phew... wrote almost 3K in that day, even though I'd been at work in the day, and even though I was dead tired. I keep looking through the book-book, looking through my old notes, through it all. Something's been stirred inside me, something's been awakened... realizing why I first begun telling these stories, realizing what's there, in between the lines; that is both painful... and that I love with all my heart.
I put too much emotion in the things I write. Feels like every sentence and every word I put down on that paper is a chunk of myself, going astray from me, while it all the same feels like they belong to me more than ever... those words, being mine and nothing but mine; yet influenced by everyone that ever affected me, everyone who ever meant something.
Good or bad.
And I feel just like Woven's feeling right now, in the third novel, while things are starting to strain on him, finally catching up. I feel lost. Like I don't know who I am. And still, I'm more of myself than I ever was. More of the old bex, the cynic, the dark one. Something I read today reminded me of it.
A world where depression and sadness is mistaken to be intelligence...
I love just to be here, this second, in this room. I wish I never had to leave here. I need nothing but my acoustic songs, creative mind, and this temporary less intricate state of mind. I need only to listen to music that touches my heart. Need to be emotional and to live for nothing but what simpleness and words can vouch for me to feel. And forget about the rest.
POET in the sugarcoated JAR
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For Dust And Memories