South of Eden

I hate knowing that I've let you in, only to hurt you.

No matter which way I turn, I'm the bad guy. Except for maybe from my point of view, but... No. There is still guilt.

Guilt molded by indifference. My indifference to you.

I think I'm inspired. For the first time in a very, very long time. I think my complete and total lack of feeling actually towards something caused me to feel again... Or... something.

"I wonder what you would say if I walked up to you today and confessed that I feel nothing. Well, not nothing. I do love you. As much as a friend can love someone they've known for most of their lives.

But do I smile over just knowing you're standing somewhere nearby? Do I want to be near you? Spend all my time with you?

Time is an important thing.

No. No I don't.

For a long time I was told that I was 'The Heart.' People have told me that they've never known anyone quite as empathic as I, but I doubt the truthfulness behind those words. It's impossible to understand another's heart when you lack one of your own."

Writer's... Block?

This is me, forcing myself to write.
It's been a long time, and it's starting to make me ill.

My senior year of high school, as great as it was, still had it's... Lameness. I've always prized myself on my writing, and near the beginning of the year I wrote a lot. I even became the Prose Editor of my school's literary magazine. (Who could ask for more, right? Allow me my bit of selfishness.) I think I just sort of expected to be in the magazine. I believed myself a good writer, so I thought that something I wrote would get it.

I entered five stories. Five. And I got nothing out of that.

So I've been really self conscious ever since. Maybe I just didn't push it enough? No one in my group ever gave me a real answer as to what they thought of the stories. I know that my teacher liked them, she'd read them and was later shocked upon realizing that I wasn't in the magazine.

It sort of just makes me wonder. All those things I wrote that my friends and teachers praised, were they really any good? I know that my Ad. Lit teacher mentioned that all of my teachers talked about what a great writer I am, but... Well, I don't know.

So here I am. Forcing the words. Forcing them. I haven't had to do this in a long time. They used to flow. Now they are reluctant and my stomach churns with each word I let out. Like I'm afraid. Afraid of something I really enjoy doing.

Expect a forced story soon. Probably something short and terribly lame for nothing else than to just get my mind functioning once more. If I expect to try writing as a career choice, then I seriously need to get my marbles back.

So, until then. This is Alyce signing out... or... something.

Alyce