Entry #1 (July 15)
When one discusses the concept of emotion and when or when not to express said emotion, they tend to use the metaphor of a bottle. Such discontent and pessimistic ideas begin to fill this bottle to keep from slipping. But alas, there is only so much you can hold before the liquid slowly seeps from the cap only for the cap to pop off the top and watch the circus show of gray and blue rain over the audience. Of course this could be solved by releasing some of this negative energy in small increments, whether directly or indirectly. More often than not, people choose the indirect route as they may release the crippling chains through different mediums such as music, art, writing, etc.
I for one have tried experimenting with certain mediums to release my own nightmares. For months I too have held on to these emotions for too long. Multiple days of my stomach and intestines wanting to climb up my throat, causing a gag relax and an urge to scream as if one is viciously stabbing me with euphoria. Considering that I have been an author for almost five years, the idea of giving a new home to my thoughts on paper seemed plausible. I do feel quite grateful for my writing skills however. I can only play other musician's simplistic three chord songs on my sleek guitar, currently covered in a thin film of dust and my art is equivalent to an adolescent who draws their admirable works using MS Paint.
Somehow my father must have acquired telepathy along the way as I received a journal for my birthday. At first glance I gave a look of surprise, as normally my birthday would be any other day with the exception of a voice mail of my father poorly singing happy birthday. I guess it's the effort that counts, I guess. Is that how it goes? Anyways, this year he sent the journal in the mail with a note mentioning how this could be helpful for future stories. I felt a bit frustrated at myself, thinking that I should have thought about that a while ago rather than spending my mornings in a paralysis state and my afternoons feeling like a puppet, letting the master control my movements and actions quick enough for me not to appear dead but slow enough to clearly show my groggy state.
This isn't strange however. It's the middle of July, during the humid season in my town. The air just wants to cling to your clothes and travel your insides. It's a feeling where you aren't breathing air but consuming some light and airy substance but the substance continuously falls into your trachea. It is hard to count how many mornings I woke up with my arm grasping at nothing, wishing it could be detached from my body and grab the inhaler. Despite the common stereotypes of people who use inhalers are ones who are unconfident and have a lanky body build, I happen to be well built but I do fall under the struggle of confidence as of late. Not even sure when I went to a social event last. It doesn't help when half of my career is staring at a blank piece of paper. There was once a time when I was lost in the sea of ideas that felt like a few minutes, only to look at the clock and noticed I had an equivalent to an out of body experience for almost the entire night. That five in the morning sunrise burns my eyes every time.
Might as well talk about my everyday adventures I guess. I just spent the first two pages of this journal talking about myself instead of writing ideas. I think that was my original intention? I'm not sure. I'm probably just talking out my ass for all I know. My eyes have been trying to close down the gates for the night. Yet my brain still doesn't turn the switch, even when my body is about to burst. It needs rest, it needs a temporal break from the world of the living.
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I am the creator of four worlds. My job is to nourish each world with a purpose, otherwise there is no point for existence. Yet these worlds are still only in the womb, developing through the ink that is poured upon this paper. The splash of fantasy painting the mystical world of Othel and Farhan, to the realism that inhabits the small community of Sinclair. These hands have yet to mold the zygote of the unknown world who has slithered through my ears and nibbles at my mind.
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I am painted with guilt yet again as I just snapped out of another three hour daydream. I was planning on adding something at the end but unfortunately nothing is coming to mind. It's currently 3:00 am. Hopefully I'll be able to sleep for the remainder of the night.