May 20, 2014

There are those moments when you cross your fingers and sit tight, waiting for the right moment to jump in. There are those moments when you realize you actually do not know what you're doing, contrary to what your self has taught you. Those moments when you take a step back, though stepping forward was your very first intention. Those moments when you back down from the high and head straight to the down-lows of your mind. Those moments when you convince yourself that you aren't really like that, not at all. Those moments when you have to admit that you are like that, exactly like that. Always. Those moments when all you hear are the rushing and creaking sounds of the gears in your head, trying to decipher between the right phrases to use and the phrases that most absolutely should not be used. Those moments when you get too excited and too soft and you forget about everything you've written across your brain to keep track of. Those moments when it's time to play it out, you're calling action. And you've forgotten just quite how to make eye contact, how to breathe, speak, how to move. Those moments when all you see when you close your eyes are the things you wish you'd have said and done. Those moments when you try to relate to inanimate objects by talking incoherently to yourself and to your living room, bedroom, to your walls. Those moments when you stare out of windows in such a dramatic way that makes everything move ever-so-slowly, like directors portray their props in their films. Those moments when you make believe you have your own theme song and soundtrack that corresponds to your life as you stare into a fire, someone's eyes, into the sky. Those moments when you imagine that you are, in fact, a soundtrack and that you are a film with a theme song, with a romantic plot and all the right lyrics and scenes, characters, all the right songs. Then there are those moments when you realize you can't do what you love. Nor can you write about it.

Rough draft. Rough mind.