![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
On my mind...
Jan. 5th, 2003 03:06 am3 AM, can't sleep. I hope I'll be able to get up, and into the city for 11 AM to meet ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aquariumgirl et al. for the Spy Museum.
Too much on my mind. Confusion, complication, aggravation, frustration (oh look, I can rhyme at this hour) And shoulders hurt. And annoying frustrating sore throat-not the dreaded tonsilitis again I hope, but I don't know I can feel the gigantic tightening feeling, and if I take anything for it, I'll just end up sleeping and not being awake to go to the museum.
I want to spill it all out. I'm feeling the compulsive urge to write; the funny thing is, I write in this journal frequently, but the urge to do it, the need to spill out the words, to process, (if you will) gets so intense when I'm confused. If I were more creative as a writer, I suppose you could say the muse visited then. This? This writing isn't muse-ful, this writing is just my guts, spilling out onto the screen or page, wherever I happen to put them. I want to write about the guy I spent part of this weekend with, the conversation I had that I didn't want to have, the confusion, the everpresent confusion which fades at times only to rear its head whenever things happen. Its one of those things I'm firmly convinced I'll get over and it still hasn't happend...years later, years after I finally looked it in the face and said "yes, it's true." At the same time I know I should go and get back into bed, try and sleep some more. Not a crisis if I miss the museum, but I'd be disappointed-we'd both be disappointed.
Later. There will be time for writing later, and the pages aren't going to disappear.
aquariumgirl et al. for the Spy Museum. Too much on my mind. Confusion, complication, aggravation, frustration (oh look, I can rhyme at this hour) And shoulders hurt. And annoying frustrating sore throat-not the dreaded tonsilitis again I hope, but I don't know I can feel the gigantic tightening feeling, and if I take anything for it, I'll just end up sleeping and not being awake to go to the museum.
I want to spill it all out. I'm feeling the compulsive urge to write; the funny thing is, I write in this journal frequently, but the urge to do it, the need to spill out the words, to process, (if you will) gets so intense when I'm confused. If I were more creative as a writer, I suppose you could say the muse visited then. This? This writing isn't muse-ful, this writing is just my guts, spilling out onto the screen or page, wherever I happen to put them. I want to write about the guy I spent part of this weekend with, the conversation I had that I didn't want to have, the confusion, the everpresent confusion which fades at times only to rear its head whenever things happen. Its one of those things I'm firmly convinced I'll get over and it still hasn't happend...years later, years after I finally looked it in the face and said "yes, it's true." At the same time I know I should go and get back into bed, try and sleep some more. Not a crisis if I miss the museum, but I'd be disappointed-we'd both be disappointed.
Later. There will be time for writing later, and the pages aren't going to disappear.
