Today's just one of those days that I'd rather be at home, letting all the sunlight I can stream through the windows, having the music up full blast, and be dancing in clothes too big that really don't belong to me at all.
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Today's random playlist, accompanied by the awesome sunshine out is hurtling me back to memories of the simpler days. When school was a pleasure, work was optional, and company was always in abundance. Just the last week--especially the past few days--has held a little too much responsibility for me. While I'm up to the challenge, I can't help but stress when the onus is not completely on me and I'm forced to rely on someone else who can't keep up. No matter how deep a hole I fall into, I know I can always dig myself out, I'm only worried when someone falls in with me; will I be strong enough for the two of us?
(I'm actually now picturing a dirt hole and me struggling to lift someone out with my bum wrist.)
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The hardest thing about writing stories is sharing them. I love to write stories, I love to tell stories, but once I publish them, they're left up to the reader's interpretation and that's the scary part. I'm happy to have everyone relate personally to a story one way or another, but I'm afraid when people see too much of themselves in it and mull over the notion I was writing about them and only them. Stories borrow from real life--that's why they seem real. But the only life that I know how to tell about, is my own; the rest, I have to make up.
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My hand cream is perfumed and is giving me a head ache.
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Mood: Decidedly lonely.
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