Blank Infinity.

What makes me get into this mood? It can't just be feeling as though I'm being treated like a kid. It can't just be that. 


Is it the frustration that I can't write? I almost want to doubt that because I DID write a little bit today. Not much, but my one piece is slowly getting better. That's an improvement, right?


Is it this house? Is it just living under this roof with these people? Is it the fact that as long as I'm in their house--as long as I can't get a job or make money of my own or convince him to move out--I will forever be viewed and treated as though I'm a kid? I can't even stand driving around with them. Is that why I'm like this? If that's the case, I will never ride in their car again.


Is it because he's still acting like the kid? Is it because he still hasn't gotten an internship and can't see the importance of actively seeking one out? I wish that his mom had been harder on him as a kid; now, he's still lackadaisical and neither of us can do anything about it. I just wish he would grow up... is that asking too much? 


I hate complaining, but if I don't get it out somewhere, it will just devour me. 


I'm sad. I'm depressed. And I want it to go away. I want something more. I want a job--a good job and a decent paying job. I don't know why I don't get contacted back and I don't know how to make people call me back. Too often, I cannot call them--whether they specifically say do not call or there is just no contact information, I'm just... stuck. I'm always applying. No one can tell me I'm not trying. I'm going to go for more government jobs. Maybe if I can work my way through there a bit, I can work towards getting to grad school in Scotland. 


Maybe.


I'm going to try to stay positive.


But at the very least, no one can say I'm not trying.

Save Yourself: Part Two.

It's this house. I know that's what it is. It zaps everything out of me and robs me of my creativity. Whenever I'm here, I feel trapped and drained. I can't take this house much longer. I want my life back. I want my creativity back.


I want my words back. I want my imaginary friends to talk to me again like they did in Ireland. All the ideas they shared with me--bringing me back to their world and revealing the story to me. They don't commune with me here like they did in Ireland. My characters open up to me more when I'm by myself or somewhere out in the open. When I'm not trapped, they're not trapped. I need space. My own space.

Save Yourself.

I feel like I'm losing my ability to just sit down and write. 


I can't remember the last time I did that. Just lost myself in words and story for hours at a time. 


I want it back.