Ever start a project, but then stop, and then restart anew?

That has been my experience trying to write books, poems…blogs. I hate what I’ve written, I’ve start over, and I’ve forgetten. It is the single most frustrating experience I have with writing. It was never that difficult; I would have no problem putting pen to paper, or in this day and age, fingers to keyboard. But here I am, at 12:30 something in the morning, staring at a blank screen on my laptop, wondering what the hell am I doing?

What am I doing?

I just relocated myself for a job, that as of yesterday, I no longer possess. 1200 miles away from familiar roads, silent trees, and faces of people I have found comforting after no longer seeing them everyday.

I’ve been on the brink of mental breakdown since moving, and the only thing that has kept me sane (aside from my incredibly awesome roommate who should get a medal of some kind), is writing. Poems, ideas, metaphors…all slip through my mind and into my fingertips.

Now if I can break the nasty habit of wanting to write at 1am, or in the middle of a huge project, then I would be a happier person. I think.

I’m not sure really. What it means to be truly happy. Honestly, I never thought I would live this long. The world just never felt right to me; I was in pain, and was filled with hatred and lies. I’m sure the screams of my frustration are still bouncing off far-off mountain ranges. For here I am fighting off sleep, (finally,) typing the first words of a blog I said I would attempt years ago, and all I can think about are the journals lying not more than 5 feet from me; the scraps of paper hastily shoved into a file to later be catalogued. All I can think of, is what will become of this, of me.

I have no sign, or understanding of what lies ahead. I never thought I would live to see 24. And as I settle into my new age all I can think about, is how grateful I am for words.

I never thought I would live to see 24. I never thought pieces of paper and ink, would ultimately define who I have become.