A Journal Entry I wrote.

Discussion in 'The Artist's Corner' started by trikky, Sep 2, 2008.

  1. #1 trikky, Sep 2, 2008
    Last edited by a moderator: Sep 3, 2008
    I know most of you won't want to read this because it's so long, but I thought I'd put it up because it's honest. It's me. Here ya go.

    [FONT=&quot]My eyes open quickly as my alarm clock ravages me from what little sleep I got . “Fuck,” I think. It was the only word I was able to muster this early in my routine. Looking up, I notice my room around me for the first time, as if my brain had not had time yet to decide where I was. I notice something digging sharply into my calf muscle. I turn over to see, but I already know. Taja climbed up on the bed and slept right near my legs, leaving some scratches on my leg from chasing rabbits in her sleep. Dogs are funny that way. They don’t like being alone. “Neither do I, for that matter,” I thought to myself.


    [FONT=&quot] As I lay there in bed, trying to talk myself out of going to class, a few things come to mind. Did I do my assignments for my classes? No, I started on all of them, but one still needs to be finished. I dread the thought of having to do work sometimes, it’s almost a game to me at this point, waiting until the very last minute, then gobbling up some speed and finishing it at the last second. Which brings me to my next though, “Wake and bake?” Nah, not today, I’ve got to get to class soon. But the allure of the bong is too much for me, and I sit down to go through my herb-smoking ritual. [/FONT]


    [FONT=&quot] It’s the same ritual every time. First, the excitement sets in, the kind of excitement one gets in grade school when recess is called. To me, my bongs are toys. So I go to my collection and select one. I’m going with something straightforward this time, just a glass straight tube made by RooR. I’m looking at the bong as I carry it to the kitchen, admiring my $300 purchase. I fill it with water and return to the same spot on the couch I always sit in to smoke. Looking around for a second, I finally figured out where I left the herb last night. I break up the bud, taking a moment to appreciate its quality. It smells like diesel gasoline inside the jar that it was kept in. In a matter of second, my small living room is filled with the wonderful scent of high-quality marijuana. I sit back for a moment and enjoy the smell. A voice in the back of my head tells me to hurry the fuck up, or I’m going to be late. I pack up the bong, and take the first hit. God, I feel so much better now. And jesus, that worries me. I know I’m not addicted to marijuana if there even is such a thing; however, I’ve yet to find something else that so instantly relieves my anxiety and panic attacks. [/FONT]


    [FONT=&quot]The momentary thought of my anxiety problems leads directly to me obsessing about them. Should I even bother going to school today? Are the people there going to like me? Why should I care when I’m twenty-two years old if someone likes me or not? But I do. I care a lot. My stomach starts to hurt- badly. This is my body’s physical reaction to my stress levels. It feels as if the area where my esophagus meets my stomach is being clenched in a fist. Or maybe if someone were closing off the esophagus at the stomach and pushing in with force on my stomach. It’s a pain I don’t think many could deal with on a regular basis, but it has become part of my life these last few years. Nothing has seemed to stop it. [/FONT]


    [FONT=&quot]Working through the pain of my stomach and haze from being stoned out of my mind, I look around my room for something suitable to wear. I naturally reach for brown, a neutral color, easy to match up, and I like earth tones. Or at least the part of me that wants to fit in with the “hippie” crowd thinks so. I throw a hat on because, once again, I’m too self-conscious about my hair to be willing to do anything with it until it’s the “perfect” length. [/FONT]


    [FONT=&quot] As I get in my car and head towards school, I think back to Atlanta, and how different my life there was just two months ago. I miss my friends dearly. I fight back the urge to shed what I like to call a “man-tear.” It doesn’t work. One large, round tears full of yearning trickles down my cheek, hanging for only a moment then dropping to my arm. It’s symbolic in a way. The tear was full of yearning for home, but crying didn’t help. The tear drops to my skin again, and the yearning for home that produced the tear returns to my body.[/FONT]


    [FONT=&quot]I arrive at school early, as usual. Not because I want to get a good start on the day, but because I’m so stressed out, that if I don’t know that I will arrive somewhere early, I start panicking, and will eventually work myself into a panic attack. But alas, I’m here on time (for me anyways). Now, it’s time to cover all that stuff up, put on a smile and go to class. Hopefully no one will find out who I really am.[/FONT][/FONT]
     
  2. Hehe felt that way many times in my life.
     
  3. damn man... im faded out of my mind right now and it sounded like the whole thing was being narrated by morgan freeman


    but really man, you got a creative mind... i feel the same way about a lot of the same things, no joke dude
     
  4. Thanks for the feedback guys. I really appreciate it. Helps my confidence a lot as a writer to hear those things.
     

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