its beyond writers block. its beyond being uninspired. theres so much to express and my mind physically cant transfer anything to paper, or to anything. Its ridiculously frustrating. Its actually quite concerning, am i just stupid? Do i simply just don’t carry the ability to express whats going on? Its seems quite simple when others make it seem as easy as the wind. The act of expression in the simplest form, is obviously simple. If you sad, type “I am upset” or draw a sad face. But thats unsettling, its not substantial for me. Maybe expression in any form isn't whats hard, maybe the constant longing to excel in expressing yourself is what gets people hung up. A sentence will never describe how i feel whether i am happy or miserable. I dont want to be the author of a medicore sentence or a disappointment of an artwork. I want to be the author of a captivating novel people can’t put down. I rather be the artist of a intricate work the compels all. For some, that goal is extremely obtainable. For others, its a real all-american struggle. The frustrated artist is such a cliché image, and i hope this frustration to excel eventually goes away. i hope ill have work to be proud of, i know i will. Eventually, one day.
I lower my head to the surface and place an ear close. It's down there, just below the surface, scratching to get out. I take my car key and start scratching, trying to break away the barrier. I hear it in there calling to me. I can't make out the words, but I know it wants me. I know it wants the best for me and my family. It just needs a way to be freed. So then I step back and take a running start and slam into the barrier, which throws me back and down, hard, to the cobblestone path. I hear it scratching in there, still, like a picture of a glass of whiskey deep in the mind of an alcoholic. It's in there wanting to be free, like the hyperactive virgin's seed. I stagger to my feet, unwilling to accept defeat. I think and wait for an idea to strike. But the idea is on the other side of the barrier, scratching to get out.
School. Some people love it, some people hate it. Some loves English, others love Maths. Whether you like/love or dislike/hate, or love English or Maths more, it doesn't matter. In school you can learn new things, make new friends and get used to new environments.
Personally I love English, Maths and Art best and dislike PE/Sport most. Others may prefer Performing Arts or LOTE/languages, it doesn't matter. Everyone's opinion is different. You can make friends through other friends, common things, meeting them in the hallway and introducing yourself or at a club...there are so many ways to make friends...
Whether you love or hate school, it doesn't matter because everyone has different opinions...
"Oh Jesus Christ! What in the Hell was that thing!?" I yelled at no-one in particular, probably not a good thing to do considering the rest of the base was quiet as the grave. A weird brown humanoid with bone white spikes came out of the shadows and clawed clean through my armor. I kicked it away and took it's head off with my last shotgun round, but damn was it rough.
"First, I get shipped off to the back water hole for disobeying an order to fire on civilians. Yeah you heard me. THEN not even a day to get my shit unpacked, we're invaded by god-damned demons! What, the fuck?"
I cursed and kicked the vile things corpse before collapsing in a corner, luckily there were some more shotgun rounds nearby, located rather strangely, right next to a med-station with some bio-gel.
"I've been shot at by humans, or well, former humans, then got the piss torn out of my side. Through friggin military grade nano-kevlar!" I growled all this out through the horrific stinging of the bio-gel closing the wound. "I've got to find a way off this god forsaken rock."
When we organized the police we became dogs on a leash. We outsourced our cut adrenaline. We gave away our staunch. Our resistance engine. Men used to look offenders in the eye, and slap any Jack that tried to front fierce. Now we rub against their leg as the thief scratches us behind our furry ears. We wag our tails and lick ourselves, unable to speak; not allowed to bark. We've outsourced our rogue muse. We've given away our protest fuel. It's trickling down the curb and gathering into a pool.
Someone's music is too loud = "Call the police!"
Someone stole my gum = "Call the police!"
We wag our tails, hoping someone meets our needs. Hoping someone gives a treat.