i was lying in my bed this morning, with my cell phone snooze buzzing on and off, on and off. the air seemed too cold on the outside, but too warm under the covers. my room gets most of the morning sunlight, so bright beams of light are pounding into my closed eyes, and the room slowly becomes a greenhouse, of sweating proportions. i had a whole list of things to do before work. mundane things like doing my laundry, registering for my ceramics class, depositing some more moola in my wamu account, making myself some breakfast... and at the bottom of the list lurked "write".
i am constantly writing, whether its in postcard form or journal form. i have so many feelings that in order to remain a sane individual i have to be always purging myself of the over-emotion i feel. but when i have to write for an audience of more than one, then i freak out. i freeze. i suddenly don't know what to write about. i suddenly have no words. i'm afraid of being uninspiring, of being boring, of being one of those stories that readers flip by. i guess i have this idea that if i am going to write, then i want people's lives changed because of it. high hopes for a person that can't even write a page for a 'zine.... damn.
but then i come on here, and the words just flow out, because i don't know who the hell reads this thing. i mean i know that alex looks at it once in a while, and other than that, i don't know who my readers are. so, unknown audience, perhaps what i'm saying is that i need some feedback. i need to know that you are there... but then if i did know, would i be so willing to just write about whatever comes to my mind? yes, i still think so.
ramble. ramble pie. work is soon. i am getting over worked. but now i am saving for this car payment, saving up for a rainy day, and perhaps the coffee shop that we want to start.