Frenetic

Do more.

Work harder. Put in more hours. Earn more money. Make the house cleaner. Drive faster. Get there sooner. Make life easier for everyone.

Be everything.

Be his wife, be their mother, be the responsible sister. Be a career woman, reliable, efficient, everyone’s confidante. Be a volunteer. Be a chauffeur. Be sexy. Be funny. Don’t let us down.

Fill the gaps.

Find someone new. Talk to him on the phone. Find more someones. Talk to them on the Internet. Take pictures. Share videos. Write. Talk. Talk more, talk endlessly, talk instead of sleeping. Meet men for sex. Meet women for sex. Try new things, new toys, new positions. More new things, always more. Shine. Scintillate. Draw them in. Give, give, give. Don’t stop… you haven’t run out yet.

Fill the void.

You aren’t done yet. There’s still space. There’s still an empty place that needs to be filled. There’s still time. You still have energy. Figure it out. You still need …. to …. be …. filled.

Stop.

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.