I turned off all my social media notifications. I much prefer screaming into a void to the tune of a symphony for a crater, then catching up on the commentary. I’ve never been a performer, I just want to capture things.
Sometimes it’s my face. Or half of. Or my words. & I remind myself these are your stupid rules. & that no one actively hates you. Stop being insecure.
In lieu of being strange & wonderful in rose colored clouds of vapor, I’ve been writing, but you have to find it. & making art out of to do lists. Publishing copy. Teaching my friends (& strangers) how to build websites. Volunteering. Reading. Taking deep breaths. Sleeping too much. Procrastinating. Forgetting. Making lists. Distracting myself.
The drafts & trash bin are my real diary. So rarely published. Or reviewed. My words annoy me. So, I get it. I feel neurotic when I’m at my best. & I think you have a complex. Just remember to let it go.
She should be nicer. More present. Tonight I played my flute. In tune.
& last week I got a keyboard from an estate sale. I’ve been messing around. But I have to be in the right mood. It’s felt unwanted.
My plants are still alive. They look healthy. Henrietta too. She lives in a doll house.
Been feeling red lips. Power moves.
Ps get out. More. & finish stuff. & pay attention to details.