I have a hill of stories I’d like to get to writing but I’ve been having some difficulties putting my thoughts into words even though my thoughts are a string of words (along with images). I have no problem when writing journal entries, not including this blog. I’m having a tough time as we speak. It must be because I haven’t done this in a while.
I have tried reading to get those creative juices warmed up. I haven’t read a novel in forever. I have yet to finish the ones I’ve started including the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The last I read was The Night Circus. It’s been a while… *two years* since I’ve finished a book.
I’ve mostly been watching television—Netflix. Lots of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, Leverage (repeatedly), Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, and Midsommer Murders. There was also Criminal Minds and NCIS. Yeah, they all have to do with solving crimes. I love these types of shows the most. Movie wise, not so much. With movies I like fantasy. I watched the animated film, Home. I also saw Fallen and Miss Perigrine’s Home for Peculiar Children which were both based on books of the same name.
Rather than help me with my words, they’ve only piled up to ideas and inspirations, therefore stuffing my brain like a turkey.
Music is usually my go to. They enable my brain to process my thoughts by distracting it. Singing along amplifies it even more. Dancing does nothing but I do it anyway. Continue reading
I’m having strange feelings arising as I near turning a year older. I have this strange feeling of an unfulfilled childhood. It’s like I missed out on throwing tantrums and rebelling. I missed on running, falling, and laughing from the fall. I missed out on asking for things I don’t need.
I’ve been so used to nodding and saying, “it’s fine” when something doesn’t go the way I want it to. As a kid, I didn’t point out for this and that and now, I’ve officially gone beyond turning point.
I admit, I’m afraid.
I’m more unsure about my life and how I want it to be than I was a year ago.
It reminds me of a childhood I can’t remember. I must have been an average child. I didn’t set off any alarms for the parents. I wasn’t perfect or extremely troubling. I was in all accounts the typical daughter. I could blame the story my mom liked to tell me. I could talk about the times when divorce was mentioned in conversations or when they laughed, oh poor June, she cried because we joked about divorce. Poor me, the girl that wasn’t a boy. Poor girl, her father wasn’t there for her birth. Poor third child, third daughter, she has so much to live up to. Poor me. Continue reading
… because I simply don’t live in Seattle.
I’d just like to begin by saying, I’ve been grabbing photographs from tumblr for a while now… but more recently, I’ve been grabbing photographs…
*falls to the ground and bows* I’m sorry for just taking someone else’s work without permission. Plus, my credits page isn’t even showing up. *sighs* Please don’t be like me. Credit the artist.
Can I even use this gif? I don’t know…
I’ll be sure to be more supportive of other artists in the future. *bows again*
For the past week it’s been a lot of apologizing, more to myself than out loud. I’ve been in a state of blankness? Everything looks and feels dull. It’s been raining but I don’t feel motivated to do anything. I’m usually uplifted when it’s raining. It makes me feel like the world is supporting me, washing away yesterday as they say. That hasn’t been the case. I would like to appreciate the rain. I try to get up in the morning but I’m too tired to even open my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well.
I just have too much stuff. I could say that they’re all important in my work and life but are they? I don’t have enough storage in my room and reluctant to buy storage. I have old journals and sketchbooks lying everywhere. There are boxes filled with crafting supplies and simple empty boxes to be crafted into something useful. Yet, those crafting supplies can’t help with crafting the empty boxes into useful storage.
I have too much stuff! I have essays and short stories from high school stuffed into binders inside makeshift bookshelves. I have reference books I don’t flip through frequently enough. There is a mountain of novels and comics sitting around that I may read occasionally. My canvases are leaned against a wall, my drawing table, and stuffed inside boxes in my closet just waiting to be used.
My computer chair is stacked high with clothes. There are bottles of paint in a black bag in my closet but the titanium whites are sitting with my sewing machine along with unboxed straight pins and an empty easel on the coffee table. Continue reading
“Life’s not as simple as a race to a finish line.”
It’s not about being the tortoise or the hare or whatever else animal you’d like to compare yourself too. You can be a cheetah for all I care and I a robin. It doesn’t change that I still believe there’s more to life than just the finish line… the finish line that is what, exactly?
Wouldn’t it be death.
I didn’t get to say this before but I’ve had a professional talk to me in the past month. My session is nearing an end on the 9th of this month, so I wanted to talk about some of the things I’d come to confess to her. Continue reading