Yesterday night’s writing is retrospectively funny. Firstly, I didn’t have a Literature class in 9th grade. Secondly, the English teacher that I did have was a man. I was envisioning myself in 7th grade Lit, back in middle school, yet referred to myself as having been in the completely different time and place of 9th grade. It’s not that I liked one of those experiences over the other, I hated them both with furiously equal amounts of teenage anxiety.
The writing itself was pretty solid for a 10pm event spurred on by a mere chapter’s worth of 1984 reading. Definitely a fun line of thinking to get my brain into that space. There are a lot of life parts I want to talk about and write about each day, most of the time it’s just easier not to. Sometimes we run into quotes, pictures, music, or other art forms that help us describe these feelings in more succinct ways. As much as I want to grab the world by the shoulders and shake it out of this sleep, I haven’t been as good at that as I’d like. Written words make it a little easier, even if they are not being read. Mixing music helps the helpless feeling, even if there’s nothing said.