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I've been trying all day to write how I'm feeling.

And it doesn't work.

Everytime I begin, I write half a page, and read it back, and delete it again.

Perhaps it's because there's so much happening right now, and perhaps it's because last night I got staggeringly drunk.

But whatever the reason, I cannot seem to find that balanced place where I can sit with words coming out of my fingers.

People irritate me today.

There's a man, a good friend, who just ended a painful internet relationship.

I should sit down and write to him, tell him he's not a bad person. But I cannot find any words that do not sound ... trite.

My best girlfriend is hurting and lonely and I cannot find words for her, to either make her feel better, or to distract her.

My mother needs me to comfort her with my presence.

And I want her to just leave me alone.

She doesn't ask for me to be there though. It's my choice. And I resent her for needing it anyway.

My friends are so sick of hearing about that my brother is dead. And I think I have mostly run out of words about it anyway.

But I have nothing else to talk about.

My friends have been looking after me, talking with me, listening to me... even phoning me from overseas...

And I can't find any way to let them know I apreciate them.

I sit, discontent and restless and wait for somethng to happen...

I want someone to say something interesting. I want to get excited. Involved. I want to be able to write again. To be able to write something that means something to me.

Boored...

I'm in a hiatus...

I'm waiting for life to start up again.

Properly this time.

I'm waiting to give a damn about anything but being snuggled and loved and aproved of by my lover.

But I'm just empty and blank and ... paused.

I can sympathize, Trina, about words not working. I have a problem with shutting up when the words don't work. I can talk and talk and write and write. I never have a problem with finding words, but they seldom help me and instead further spiral me into a vacuum of random thoughts. The more I say, the more I feel compelled to say; the same can be said for writing. It's almost like I feel the need to talk and write and that by doing so I will find a reason to write and talk, which also seldom works. It's an odd therapy, using words to convey that you don't know what to say.

When dealing with other people's indecision, I tell them that if they don't know, they should just say that, I don't know, that they shouldn't say anything else but that. But I often can't play by the same rules. And so, my words further confuse me and others and make a mess of things.

But it's all I can think to do most of the time. Writing, thinking, and talking. It makes me feel alive and dead at the same time.

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