I don't feel inspired anymore and I'm scared.
I don't feel magic in his lips or a spark or certainty.
I am ignorant and I allow myself to be.
I am lazy and lethargic.
Thoughts of what I could be doing, should be doing, run through my mind.
Running, running, running.
Even when I'm safe in bed where no one can hurt me but myself at least in my head I am running.
Fear.
There is nothing to fear but fear itself.
Well then I fear, fear.
I find refuge in other's stories, other's lives, but where is my solitude?
While I am writing my heart is pounding, knowing that all of this is true,
not even wanting to wait or be here in this moment and write it down because I should be running.
The outside calls me.
I hear the birds chirp and somedays I crack open my blinds and let the light in.
I am a prisoner within myself, to myself, chained to my emotions.
I wonder if the problem is me.
I have so many dreams.
Beautiful dreams, elaborate dreams, realistic, attainable, obscure, insane dreams.
I live to dream because in that state of inter-consciousness I can not feel real world problems.
The solutions are flowy and hazy and white.
I take pictures of sunsets on castles and I am free.
I long to be free.
My inspiration comes in doses and it usually only lasts long enough to write a poem.
I don't want you to pity me, I want you to believe in me.
I want you to convince me to believe in myself.
Maybe if I slowly start to convince myself it will soon be less of an acting gig and more of a truth.
Buzzing.
My head is often buzzing and I wonder if it is because it is not receiving enough stimulation.
Challenge yourself. Be something. Do something. Do anything.
Make art.
I suck at art.
All that I thought that I came from, that I was, that I admire, it is all for not.
Now I am stuck here re-inventing myself.
I don't feel magic in his lips or a spark or certainty.
I am ignorant and I allow myself to be.
I am lazy and lethargic.
Thoughts of what I could be doing, should be doing, run through my mind.
Running, running, running.
Even when I'm safe in bed where no one can hurt me but myself at least in my head I am running.
Fear.
There is nothing to fear but fear itself.
Well then I fear, fear.
I find refuge in other's stories, other's lives, but where is my solitude?
While I am writing my heart is pounding, knowing that all of this is true,
not even wanting to wait or be here in this moment and write it down because I should be running.
The outside calls me.
I hear the birds chirp and somedays I crack open my blinds and let the light in.
I am a prisoner within myself, to myself, chained to my emotions.
I wonder if the problem is me.
I have so many dreams.
Beautiful dreams, elaborate dreams, realistic, attainable, obscure, insane dreams.
I live to dream because in that state of inter-consciousness I can not feel real world problems.
The solutions are flowy and hazy and white.
I take pictures of sunsets on castles and I am free.
I long to be free.
My inspiration comes in doses and it usually only lasts long enough to write a poem.
I don't want you to pity me, I want you to believe in me.
I want you to convince me to believe in myself.
Maybe if I slowly start to convince myself it will soon be less of an acting gig and more of a truth.
Buzzing.
My head is often buzzing and I wonder if it is because it is not receiving enough stimulation.
Challenge yourself. Be something. Do something. Do anything.
Make art.
I suck at art.
All that I thought that I came from, that I was, that I admire, it is all for not.
Now I am stuck here re-inventing myself.
Hi Sweetie, You don't suck at art. You are great at the art of photography and that is just one of your many talents. Love, Gckr
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