on writing and happiness. i suppose.

I WANT TO WRITE

but i can't even do that right now.

my mind is so full of people; souls storming the gates to be free, but when i pull the latch all they do is stand there and stare- surprised. like any life-long prisoner they don't know what to do once they stare freedom in the face. where will they live? who will they love? most of all- what will be their method for walking out the gate?

sometimes i think i am wasted potential, sometimes i think i runneth over with genius or magic that must be shared, and sometimes, like now, i think that potential was just a dream. a pleasant thought to cling to in order to get through the days. yes, there will always be someone better than you. but what if you're really no good at all? then where will all these souls be? that's the most horrific of all-- would they be better off in someone else's prison, do you think? would someone else be better equipped to take their hands and help them down the steps and into the garden or the spaceship or the courtroom or the river or the studio or where-ever they belong?

today i was so depressed. i reached a point where i just wanted to cease to be myself. and i hate myself for moments like that because i think it's brought on by how we live- we are so selfish. i don't mean children die in africa while we eat mcdonalds and complain about our parents selfish, but how often we turn inwards rather than to our fellow man selfish. i was so sad that i cannot be who i want to be, who i feel i need to be, and that i constantly destroy or am destroyed and all it takes for me to rebuild is me standing up, but i don't want to stand up. but i do. but i don't do it. and oh, i feel so sorry for myself. i have "PROBLEMS". and everyone else, especially the needier, more emotional, sometimes more insightful ones have their problems, and we all have these problems and no one understands us and OH we are so unhappy. these problems are made only worse by how we live, the pigeon holes we are fitted into while we are simultaneously being told that we are individuals and therefore meant to be misunderstood. No one gets us, and at the same time pretty much everyone in America is depressed. Reason says we should at least have something in common, but we are determined not to see it. again, we do not- i do not- reach out. we have forgotten we belong to each other; by trying to care for others our own pain will decrease-- in fact, this depression, this pain which we feel is so individual and so hard to understand to everyone else through empathy for another person will become universal. i know i need to work on understanding that, but i don't know how right now, and i still feel so sad! sometimes i think i was merely cut out to be like this. i'm having alot of struggle with understanding my own power to change, i suppose.

but oh, i want to, i want to write. maybe freeing them will make me happier, or maybe doing them justice, having some satisfaction with their existence, will be the only thing to make me satisfied.