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I Shouldn’t Be…

What they say:

I’m not supposed to be tired

I’m not supposed to be imperfect

I’m not supposed to make mistakes

I’m not supposed to be thoughtless

I’m not supposed to have problems

I’m not supposed to be weak

I’m not supposed to be emotional

I’m not supposed to be reckless

I’m not supposed to be selfish

I’m not supposed to be confident

I’m not supposed to be smart

I’m not supposed to be dumb

I’m not supposed to be dependent

I’m not supposed to be unaware

I’m not supposed to know that

I’m not supposed to be out of the loop

I’m not supposed to be too real

I’m not supposed to be honest

I’m not supposed to be innocent

I’m not supposed to have faith

I’m not supposed to be wrong

I’m not supposed to be right

I’m not supposed to hurt

I’m not supposed to fight back

I’m not supposed to say anything

I’m not supposed to tolerate

I’m not supposed to be intolerant

I’m not supposed to be angry

I’m not supposed to be happy

I’m not supposed to be afraid

I’m not supposed to be sad

I’m not supposed to be ashamed

I’m not supposed to be successful

I’m not supposed to be lazy

I’m not supposed to be busy

I’m not supposed to be a failure

I’m not supposed to be unavailable

I’m not supposed to be clingy

I’m not supposed to ask for help

I’m not supposed to be sick

I’m not supposed to say no

I’m not supposed to say yes

I’m not supposed to be a burden

I’m not supposed to be ugly

I’m not supposed to be pretty

I’m not supposed to do that

I’m not supposed to think like this

I’m not supposed to be here

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No more Ms. Mousian

Aaaand…I wasn’t satisfied with the free write, so here I am again. What can I say? When my writer side is awakened, not even a horse dose of Ambien can put it back to bed. I gotta wear this sucker out.

Doing this blog has, like I’ve mentioned repeatedly in my “voice memo thingies”, simply been an exercise in pushing the boundaries of what makes me comfortable. Adopting the title of “writer” is not something that has come easily. I rejected it for so very long because it seemed like it came with a lifestyle that wasn’t “naturally” mine, and one I was completely unwilling to take. Not to mention, it was something that was pushed on me at a very early age, and all my life I have resisted easy classification. I’d see my peers happily take on such limiting titles as “The Brain”, “The Jock”, “The Artist”, and I wanted absolutely no part of it. To me, it felt like taking one on would have a serious impact on what I would likely focus my attention on. If I was to take on a title, it was going to be one of my own choosing.

If you’re wondering, “What is this ‘writer lifestyle’ she was so scared of?” It was the lifestyle of a writer who was a compulsive composer, a slave to the written word, and mostly, one who shares his or her thoughts and passions easily- which I believed was the only writer to be. For a time it was very easy to hide my inner self behind pretty words or flowery sentences. But passion? That odd magnetism that drew pencils to my fingers and blank pages to my lap? I didn’t have what it took to reveal mine. Mine had to be protected from those invested in changing me into their ideal person. I was a mouse, overly concerned for my survival, when all the while I was safe in a cage, and everything I needed was in reach. I couldn’t risk anything, or at least, would only make the smallest risks, the only things my tiny mouse heart could bear.

And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of acting like a mouse, consumed by passion on the inside, but devoid of all signs of it on the outside. I’m tired of going with the thoughts that say, essentially, that there is no point in my expression. It’s like saying, “There’s no point to crying, because you’ve shed tears before”. “There’s no point to laughter, because you’ve filled a room with laughter before.” Or, “Others have wept and laughed better than you”. I want the “wow, I did that”. The one that only comes after the “wow, I can’t believe I did that”. This is part of that step.

Free writes

Up in the air

Free write

Today’s supposed to be a free write, but I am getting pretty distracted. Heh, actually, if you see most of the free writes in my journal, you’d think admitting this fact is a pre-requisite to getting started. Oh my gosh, my comp is playing an embarrassingly sensual song at the moment, and if I want to stay true to the free write, I can’t change it. Why in the heck does my kitchen smell like cantaloupe?

Oh dear. It’s hard to write when I’m laughing. And yes, I am one of those people who says “LOL” and means it. A fact that some of my friends on Skype have noted to me more than once. ‘sigh’ Whatever, I like it. And I want a piece of toast. I can smell it, plus that bizarre cantaloupe smell. Seriously, it’s been weeks since I had a cantaloupe. Yeah, I am slacking a little in pacing, so this isn’t a true free write. You can dock points later. The point is to go until…well, you know, I don’t put a time scheme on these things. It’s until I’m drying up or until my hands say, “I’m spasming. Cut it out.” Just might get there in a few seconds.

I confess, I “broke” the free write. It had to happen. Blah blah blah for no other reason but to get my mind and my fingers back into a rhythm. It’s just funny how the pattern of keys and clicking and up and down has an addictive quality. It’s something I almost long to feel when I’m writing my stories, better than fingers in the corner of my mouth, which indicate uncertainty, pause and consideration. But better than the smooth music of typing is the wonderful, “Aha!” that comes after pondering what in the heck to do next. Okay, now I’m realizing sometimes those fingers in the corner of my mouth are actually fingers playing with my bangs. It’s such a subconscious reaction; so often I’m not even aware I’m doing it. Soothing, I suppose.