I just want to leave these tasks at hand, forget them.

they are inspiration suckers, they are draining me of my creativity, eating my soul if you will. 

I can’t stand it. 

I just want to take a leave, just get back to what I do, writing, creating, experiencing. 

I think, I imagine somewhere quiet, in the open air, just at peace. Able to get these damned words that have been eating me alive and plaguing my mind for months and months out onto paper. 

It’s stifling in here. I can’t do. I can’t think. “I can’t”. 

I think, I imagine the sun on my back and neck and feel the warmth reach through layers of skin. I can feel the catharsis that could be in reach, and it feels so right.

I think, I imagine being uninhibited, creating from my actual essence and emotion. Free of this arduous monotony.

Day dreams are my only motivation. 

sigh. 

typewriterblues:

What do you think about when you think about fucking?
My book for sale.

I’m not sure why I have this fascination with staring out my window, and gazing at the city. But I do it enough.
The city’s cool wind blows in through the cracks of the door and it caresses my naked feet and legs.
I stand there, so small, so insignificant and bare.
The light pollution still dimly lights my room, even from this high.
I’m just looking, maybe for something,
maybe not, maybe for a clue for what to do next.
I’m tired of routine and my legs ache and I’m so exhausted, but I hate to waste time sleeping. So I stay awake thinking.
All I’ve done the past three days is think.
I have decided to be mostly alone because I think it’s better this way,
although I may be miserable at least I’m not hurt.

04/17/11

(Source: petitefox)

(via petitefox)

(via petitefox)