I've spent all morning with a stuffed llama shoved under a heating pad to fit against my ear in an effort to keep the stabbing pain away. How fun. I've also started re-watching all of White Collar, which had been the highlight of my day other than the biscuits and gravy I had for breakfast. I have a shit load of homework to do since I've now missed two days, but I'm just exhausted. My english teacher (sometimes on here its sounds like I'm not fond of her but she's my favorite teacher like srsly she's the bomb) just emailed me back and I have like four assignments and a test monday. How fun.
I wanna write something. Like, a story. But I really have no inspiration. I'm trying to give up on James, more than I already have at least, and envisioning a world where we were something that mattered was always hiding under the surface of my work. I need to separate myself from his influence, which means trying to write without it being laced with hopes and dreams for what we might have been. That pretty much only leaves me with dismal topics to talk about. I always daydream too much. I imagine myself as someone different, or rather myself with qualities that I wish I had, qualities that would make people actually like me. Qualities that would make me like myself more. I feel like I need to try to escape that, to start living in reality and liking myself and my life for what it is. I'm kind of afraid that I can't do that and still be a writer. I almost feel like writing is like dating, how you're supposed to be okay with yourself before you let anyone else in. Although, maybe this is the time to try change. Maybe I should be trying new things, imagining different versions, to find the one that fits me best and make it my new dream. Some dreams don't work out, but that just means you get to find a new one. -Margo "The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." -Eleanor Roosevelt
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December 2019
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