beginner

It sucks that I miss my dad so much. It sucks that I miss a lot of things. It's incredibly hard to get back into the grind once you let yourself fall out. I have a hard time writing about nothing, I search for a purpose to come to this intimidating white space and release a little soul juice. Maybe it's my fault, I don't give it enough time, enough practice. I find it easier to day dream about the suffocated lines on the page instead of filling them myself. This semester I don't have an English class, I don't have my incredibly inspirational teacher from the last two semesters getting my wheels turning, ready to lock, and ready to spew. More often than not, I truly feel like I have nothing to say. Which is complete bullshit. Unlike my external personality where I struggle to accommodate the human need for small talk, the experiences of my life always have stories to tell. The thing is, I know whatever I write down I will remember forever and some things I just want to squeeze out of the memory a little faster.
But that's not the point, I should come here even when I feel I have nothing. How many times have I told myself that? When did writing become such a pressure for me? I suppose when people started foolishly telling me I was good at it. It stopped being for me and started being for the audience devouring the words like hot butter savoring the skin of a potato. I guess I do write for myself, just with the intention in my brain that I knew it will be seen....or I'm going to read it to someone. So let's share shall we?
I wonder when the day will come that I will stop savoring folks for a moment and then suddenly feel nothing but nausea. People come into my life in waves and as quick as they come, they wistfully wash away. Am I too insensitive? Do I give people a proper chance? I guess if I really knew I wouldn't be asking the questions. Do you remember those entries not so long ago that retained the deepest and delectable of emotion? Ryan Doscher was the key and faucet to this emotion and now I encounter that interesting turn of events when you wonder how you once felt that way. Human emotions are funny and while I find an awfully hard time casting an imprint with new comers, I do hope that one day some male creature will decide to stick.
But there is plenty of time for that!
I have to become a book editor first, or a writer, or a traveling yoga teacher, or a touring musician. I have to be the deepest passions of my soul and damn do they change ever so often. I don't want to edit books because I get literary boners over affairs with a red pen and a hot manuscript. I just want to help people sink a little further in the ocean that sparkles with the magic of written word. I guess that's the greater picture of it all, I want to help people. Which surprises even myself typing this becomes half the people I encounter make me wants to head for the hills and never come back. I suppose, I just have to gain the courage to want to help. To stop thinking about myself for a minute and think about everyone else. To be love and choose love when I feel like I couldn't lift one damn finger of affection. All I want is to write these words, drain these thoughts, and encourage and allow others to do the same. It's hard feeling repressed and feeling the hot moldy emotions of yesterdays clog your skin. Sure, I know everyone doesn't release within the lines but this is how I exfoliate the garbage.
I was scared to come here, scared to click the "new post" button to feel defeated by the empty area that begs for words. I'm always scared and I always critique. Let's face it, sometimes you just have to tell yourself to shut up and breathe.

& when I do, the words bloom.