This time of year is so beautiful. All things alive are growing and reaching their full potential. It is a time of memory, maybe from the year before or earlier. My hands are dirty as I write tonight. Dirty with sugestion and afterthought in not acting on forthought. It is becoming clear how all things we do as human beings or experience during our lifetimes could be considered common. Can something in a bottle actually aid in the process of discovery and self realization? Not the illegal kind but of the prescribed kind.
It is kind of like reaching a plateau. One walks the circumpherence, looks out and down. As to not looking up one could guess that he is on top. He is on top. Why would he want to descend down. Why is down considered bad? What makes the top better? Even his heartrate could be ascending wildly then down, down down. It bounces upwards again. One can see this if represented on a graph; a live graph. But he can hear it. Beat. ba. beat. ba. beat. Are heart beats similar to mankinds own desire?
Sometimes couldn’t it be possible that it is not a pointy graph. I think it should have more curves. An ocean’s tide; the waves… None of these things stop abruptly. It is not one point travelling fuck. It is a rythmical not a cacophany of life.
cough. ca ca cough
So now that she is able to think. She thinks. She thinks a lot. Ideas come and go. Ideas come. they come one by one tasting existance momentarily. Where did the anxiety go? I miss it sometimes. It drove me. Or did I drive it?
Yeah the anxiety is gone. I could always think. But dammit, where was anxiety to get me to see things through. Maybe it just takes a little longer… There is something I have been wanting to do. I want to request from my doctor a prescription for Attention deficit disorder. I have been wanting to write everything. Wanting to draw everything. This is just a big mix up. Bahahahaa. I need to laugh. The past few weeks have been kind of ridiculous for me. Sometimes I am in awe that things are just common. I kind ahhh like it.
I read over on Wagonized (a beautiful artists site) about the need sometimes to remember that you were once a little girl who locked herself in her bedroom to draw for hours. I cried. Because for me that is one heck of beautiful memory; instantaneously flooding my mind as I read it. Because i knew then that it was the one thing my mind could/can focus on regardless of the emotional state I am/was experiencing. It feels wonderful to create. I create unique things everyday. I pick tomatoes every other day. I write. I do dishes. I don’t know. I do dishes. Being in a bubble that you can go in and out of sometimes is not a bad thing. The bubble being the idea. The inside thought. Outside the bubble, action. All three together are life. Simple eh?