I think my life hit a rough patch while I wasn't looking. I've been using distractions - new people, new things to help me forget. When faced with new, I can put up a pretty good facade at first, but it's when people try to get deeper - they hit a wall and I can't let anything in. Like a cardboard box, emptied and painted for children with imagined doors and windows - but there's nothing inside. People will only wrack their knuckles on pretend doors for so long - sooner or later, if their efforts are unmet they will turn and leave. I want to walk away from myself too, sometimes.
I haven't written much lately. I think I'm afraid. I'm trying to apply my thoughts to more organised 'creative endeavours' and am coming up blank. This frustrates me. What if I have said all I have to say? What if there is nothing more? The past has shown me not to push it, it will arrive when it's ready. But that's not fucking good enough - because the real world has deadlines. Dead. Lines. Fine lines... frown lines.. down times.. good byes.
I don't feel like I have anything of my own. No dreams, no belongings. I am suffocating amongst other peoples 'things'.