You tell me this will be the last night, feeling like this.

I want to write every day for the next three weeks.  I have the time to, I know that, and I feel like I could use the release after the amount of pressure I've been under.  So why is it so hard for me to pull words out now that I've sat down with a blank page before me and no one to talk to?

It used to be so easy for me to channel emotions.  Especially sad ones.  But now I'm sitting here with a dawning sense of loneliness and I don't know how to put it into words, which is probably more scary than the loneliness itself.  I've always been able to put something onto the page.  Very little of it was truly good, but I was good at using writing as therapy.  That's why that creative writing class was so good for me earlier this year--I had to write.

And most of the things I wrote were morbid or terrifying or heartbreaking, in my mind at least, although I know my execution was awfully flawed.  But that's what I needed to write, and taking a class about writing made me put it down on paper.  So now, when I'm busy and preoccupied and writing just isn't that high on my list of priorities anymore...I don't do it nearly as often.  And I'm afraid that I'm slipping away.  That I can't write anymore.

I'm falling away from the middle ground I seem to have found over the summer into two opposite directions.  On the one side is the success, and on the other is failure.  The first is occupational, the second is emotional.  The strange thoughts are back.  I say that as though they are a malignant tumor which prevents me from functioning, but no, they're really not.  They're nothing exceptional.

It's just that I can't talk about these things and I have a hard time writing about them, and I don't express them anymore, which means they have no outlet, so they brood.  And I'm bad with brooding thoughts.  If two years ago didn't give that one away, I don't know what possibly could.

So here I am, at this odd hour, trying to make sense of the life that makes none.  I almost wish someone would comment on a post so that I know that anybody reads this, but I doubt anybody would if I asked.  So I'm not going to ask.  I never wrote this for others to begin with, although I do censor it solidly enough.  The thoughts are all for me.  No sentence is crafted to please anyone's fancy but simply to throw my emotions out of my mind.

I heard about the concept of a meditation stone at one point many years back.  You pick a smooth stone and you hold it in your hands and pass it back and forth and will all of your worries and anxieties into the stone, so that they can't disrupt you anymore.  I considered trying it, but stones don't do it for me.  Writing did for a while.  Then other things replaced it.  I came back to writing shortly after that.  But now, I don't have a metaphorical stone.

I'm sitting here lost in a world of my own creation, making everything so melodramatic and emotional it almost sickens even me.  I'm not even going to pretend to understand.