I was told by more than one person that a writer just writes. I can’t argue that at all because as much as I would love to stop it altogether, I can’t. It pains me not to take to the words and expressions that fill my mind and my days. It could very well be a look at someone going completely senile, or stopping themselves from doing so. I don’t know, but it is a fascinating look at the powers and forces that go into a piece of work like me.

I thought of my expectations, and how I seem to build them up with some sort of erector set. The expensive set that came with a motor so you could build machines that do damage when they all come flying apart. Even with the best of tempering them, my expectations are usually tame but explosive as well. Bright spots of engineering insights that I always believe mean more than they really do. Even in trying to get along with people and trying to make friends it is the same way. I thought I had a friend at school, another Gemini, but I was mistaken because it was all just a part of the job and the energy changed completely. Those things I feel and see like they are blackout curtains and physical shoving away. I get it, I have been down that road before, just not the kind of person I thought after all so I just let them be, they don’t deserve to be burdened with my crap.

Even though I feel at home a lot more than I once did at the college, I still feel awfully alone and questioning everything I am doing. Is this me? Am I really going to pull this off? I don’t know at this point, I will try, but I am not the kind of person that can handle too much stress right now, too much churning of my gut and the closing off of my intestinal works. Maybe it is simply a time for a dramatic change of attitude, a can do one instead of all of this fear that I am going through. So much of this feels like existential stuff, the kind that brands me irreparably. The pain is something I am used to and don’t notice as much, it is the change that I notice and that is not always a pleasant surprise.

So even though my writing class is about me, it’s not about me. I could kick off at any moment, yet I am taking college classes? Yes, this is going to be a tough slog through a lot of new experiences, and new people. I just hope I have the energy for it, the passion for it. Because at this point instead of pumping me up about writing, it is doing the opposite and shutting me down. I guess I will find a new friend eventually, or just go at it better solo, either way, fear and the ominous feeling of doom inhabit my thoughts again about school. That can’t be good and I have to try to change that up a bit at least. In the meantime I have to steel myself and go it alone. The epitome of the peak of existentialism and looking at the world that wants to see me fail. Don Quixote has found a fellow fighter in me.


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