Writer? I Hardly Know Her!

Writing is fascinating to me. It's essentially one person talking to another through a combination of technology and their own thought. It's one person telling a story and capturing that story, then telling it, through that paper or screen, to another. It's truly a magical thing and it hurts my brain when I think about it too much. I feel that I am a writer in my soul, and yet writing is a concept I may never fully understand. Still I try, much like with my other big questions. I understand so little of this world, and too much of it all at once. I'm rambling on again. I apologize. I often feel as though there is something wrong with me. Or like I don't belong here. I sometimes don't feel real. It's as though I'm both painfully numb and overwhelmingly terrified. I spend too much time in my head in order to escape the world I live in. Sometimes I find myself turning to poetry. I try to turn them into songs when I can. Both my mom and my dad used to write ...

Hello Again, I have a little, blue-green, retro fan in my room that I run basically whenever I'm in the room. And appearantly that's too often, because it's beginning to sound, on occasion, like it's struggling. Something I've often struggled with is the relationship between emotions and objects. I would often see them as almost one in the same,  not sure why. I often collect little souvenirs from trips and events and hang outs I've had with friends: like my ferry ticket, acorns from under the tree we ate next to, even a pencil or a string a friend gave me. Some items are more sentimental, deeply sentimental. Like items that belonged to my mother, who died when I was thirteen,  or little statues or stuffed animals that belonged to my great grandma. This was a big issue for me,  and I didn't realize it until the last few years. I'd not only keep those sentimental things, I'd keep clothes that had holes in them so big that they couldn't be worn. I ...