Hmm. I met Sandra Cisneros. It was amazing. Yet now I want to write the things I want to write, and not the things I need to be writing. I love Shakespeare, don't get me wrong. I just have a paper due in an hour that I could care less about. I'll turn in some writing. But why can't it be something I actually want to write?

My head is exploding, and I want to let it. Let me out of my cage.

please.

I wrote so much more when I cared.

I don't know if I've stopped, but I've stopped caring about the same things.
Sometimes I just want to scream, rip my hair out, yelling profanities about how God cannot exist. Therefore I do not care, and I can do what ever the fuck I want to do at all times. Except not. Because once my medicine is back in my system, I care again. Maybe not as much as before. But, in some ways, I still care.

Things. Why must we all focus on things? Tangible. Unobtainable. Is that why we want them so badly? Probably.

Things. Items. Ultimately, I like them, I suppose. I want them anyhow. Not expensive, ridiculous things with "names" attached to them. Not the kind that everyone starts wanting because other people have it. I like things that I can feel. Things I can remember. Things I can create.

I like journeys. And trips. And adventures. And maybe even small or inexpensive keepsakes that will help me remember the memories. Other things, I just don't want. I don't even desire them. People tear themselves up over things. Why though?

Maybe I just rant because I don't understand it. I won't ever understand, I don't think. The most expensive things I have paid for are concert tickets, plane tickets to new places, two tattoos designed by me in order to help me when I get off track, and school related things. Oh, and probably my contributions to my friend, MJ. But those things create memories. Or help me help myself.

I just don't know why I get so angry about it. I don't think I ever will understand it, and therefore can't find meaning in it.

Anxiety.
I have it.
A lot. More than a lot.
It's getting worse.
I can't sleep. I'm up all hours, thinking someone is going to break into the house. Or kill me. Or worse. My brain, it won't shut off. All of these things which couldn't possibly happen. Well, maybe they could, but not probably. And all of the lights--they better be on.

Gram thinks I keep leaving the lights on on accident.
It's not an accident.
I'm just scared out of my mind for no real reason.