it makes perfect, complete, and total sense that i am apparently making up for lost time. the writing i should do in one week, i do in one day.
manic. it sucks to be so highly aware of it. how can i be completely silent for about two years, pick up a blank journal and have my way with it, then start a blog one random day? i think there were 80-something posts that first day, bc it had to be done all at once. just like now. if i was posting these in real time, for the virtual world to see, i'd have 6 posts in one day. RIDICULOUS. or, i prefer to think, inspired.
i would also like to delve into something here for just a minute.
see, i do this thing. i always did in my past other life. there's one boy. and he's all i can think about/breathe/do etc. and since i decided one day that it was ok to daydream, there have been.... i think five? correction: four.
first month or two, solid: boy one. next month boy two. boy two was inspired by a communication inititated by him. boy three was incidental to my real life. and four. well, four is a different ball of wax.
came in a dream. possibly inspired by a conversation with nina, but possibly not. and now, a line of communication initiated by me. flirting with mental disaster. but also flirting with the ultimate in inspiration.
stop it. stop it right now. this is not a good idea. this is not allowed.
wishing myself to hold hands with boy one and show him heima and play all of my music for him, beginning with the year when we stopped hanging out. for like ever, all night. awake drinking wine the way we used to be, more than one night in a row if time allowed - only kissing him once and for all. just to see what i was even missing out on for all those years.
and thinking that boy two had this desire to come to me. and show up on my doorstep one day. and ask me to run away with him. and thinking that i'd allow myself, if only for a few hours, to run away and see how that made me feel.
and, finally, wishing myself to be pushed into a dark space and get good and kissed by boys three and four. four is completely off limits. completely. well, all of them are. but four is, for a different reason.
all of this is unacceptable. so why do i do it? and why i have i let my mind wander here in the past?
maybe it also (manic) falls into line with the phases where i delude myself into thinking that i don't need sleep. or that i don't need as much sleep. and that it's ok to be up all night writing, or typing. scribbling my mad thoughts furiously in an attempt to not forget. holiday weekend lends encouragement.
maybe it's because the depressive phases last so fucking long, in comparison. that when i wake up one day and think 'i feel like writing today' or 'it's a beautiful day' or 'i've been meaning to read this', i do it. and then cannot make myself stop.
at least i'm able to keep typing, because if i was actually writing, my hand would've permanently cramped a long long time ago.
you really can't help when inspiration strikes. knowing that two books are on their way to me, that one has already arrived, and that two were discovered on my bookshelf, it only means that i sense some sleepless nights ahead. maybe i can write five books' worth. and hope that at least a few lines are good enough to make the cut.
i wrote this letter to myself in frustration a couple nights ago:
DEAR FUTURE TEA:
are you happy? are you still sad? are you still lonely? are you still unsatisfied? are you still unkissed? are you still wanting to be alone? are you still up at night, dreaming and writing about the same fucking place in your head you dwell in? and are you still up at night, late, just before fall reminiscing?
is it just the weather? is it something else entirely?