Not blank enough

My mind is blank. I wish it wasn’t so busy when it is blank.

My head is such a mess of emotions for so many different people, and none of them are what I’d like them to be – clean-cut and calm, and nourishing; controllable. Love and lust and jealousy and affection and some undefined negative emotion that might be because of the heat and eating nothing but cakes and milky coffee (which is nearly food), or might be because of conversations that won’t go where I want them to go because the other person won’t be pushed in the direction I am trying to go in.

And then I wonder if it’s just my ego that propels all this, and why sometimes it’s fun to let it out to play, and sometimes I just want to beat the shit out of it.

If I don’t start clearing out my house, I’ll never be able to clean out my head. Because I know that I’ll do it, I just let stuff pile up, in my head and my house, until there’s so much I don’t want to start because I dread the confusion till it’s done.

I think if I don’t post something now this cyberpage will just sit there forever unsullied and terrifying, becoming more and more precious every day, until nothing will be good enough for it. And now I think I’ll go and do the fucking laundry, which is apparently too stupid to do itself, and which now blocks the way to the sink. Or maybe I’ll put on loud music and dance around the living room.