This weekend I have experienced absolute moments of fury - they seed from apparent non-issues. The sound of someone as they walk the hallway; a menial request of my time. Am I hormonal? Do I have some horrible brain tumour which is eating away at my central nervous system?
I can't describe it. Tonight, I sat down to practise my drawing, I felt I wasn't really in the mood but I persisted because I plucked a flower this evening from its bush and to not make use of it tonight would be wasteful, as no doubt it would wither by tomorrow. It was a waste anyway; I couldn't concentrate, the lines weren't making sense - I know what I see but I am incapable of replicating it.
I tried a study of the colours. This beautiful flower, not one colour, but many. Many mismatched hues that when blended by the magic of mother nature produced this amazing thing. Magenta, red, orange, yellow, white, pink... I tried to blend my pastels. It was a very poor imitation.
Why does everything always have to feel like such an effort? Why do things feel so hard all of the time? I feel like some tragic female version of George Costanza - not real tragedy, just a rather comedic result of lameness after lameness. Endless lame; pathetic, yet also seemingly a physical disability on my part to just reach anything good. Fucky mcfuck, if it weren't so hurtful, it would be funny to me.
Anger meets with disappointment and then tears, but I will not cry.
I've been feeling like this whole 'focus on me' thing has been positive for me - improving myself, but these moments pass so quickly, and all I'm usually left with is remorse for the same diversions in the road, replaying. Groundhog day. I always turn down the same track, I always realise only when I'm part way through, that I made the wrong choice. This leads to the big ones - why am I me, why am I here, why can't I just be somebody else?
I wish I was the moon, I wish I were a written word on a page - part of something, purposeful. I wish I was a bird, that I could fly away - soar on the breeze.
God, it's all so melodramatic isn't it? I hate coming here and crying about how awful everything is. Perhaps the real problem is that I am labouring under a misapprehension. All this time thinking that at some point, in this musical drama that is my life, that I will be due my tap dance solo at some point. Maybe that doesn't really happen at all? Or maybe it happens in select cases - like with movies stars and child geniuses.
I feel like a loose feather trapped in a room. No breeze to uplift and set me free. Confined to live out my days in an environment not made for me. The swishing feet of a passerby gives rise to a short lived flight, but too soon I am once again wedged. Waiting for something to move, for the earth to shake me free.
Oh, I don't know?