On procrastination

At the passing Towel Day which reminds me each year that one of my favorite writers, Douglas Adams, has passed into the boredom of death, I think each year on his habits. Originally, I thought it was funny Adams didn’t like to write. Hell, I’ve had a love of poetry since I was little; I wrote a bit while I was younger but the constant nags that I wasn’t good enough made me change my mind. That being said, I did end up picking up a pen again.

I guess it was life’s way of making my lies come true; I had claimed to be a poet to others (I did write poems every now and then) and then I became one. I could pretend writing down a line or two had some significance. It made me feel a little less lonely when I actually got down some words. It made me feel like my problems mattered. I didn’t share much then, and I don’t share much now.

Unfortunately, letting someone into my head isn’t easy. I hate to be vulnerable, and I have a habit of pushing away anyone I feel might earn a shred of trust in me in time. After I give someone a piece of me I can become infatuated, though I generally already are (otherwise, said person would get no words from me). This is worsened by the fact that people have a habit of telling me how great I am and how good my work is. Then, I make stupid decisions feeling that there’s a possibility for care.

Now, what does this have to do with Adams? Or, Stardust’s website for that matter? I am slowly finding out more and more that I don’t particularly like to write. I don’t like doing much of anything anymore. I keep telling myself I’ll update the website with something new (or, even Audubon Park Garden District’s website) and days go by with nothing from me. As time goes on, I feel I’m slowly turning into Hank Moody; there’s little I can do without messing something up, and I’ll always get something done… eventually.

I have been sick for about a week. Generally, I am either depressed or heartbroken (mostly both), but I have recently regained my heart’s freedom and I find myself completely drained. I’m uncertain what I have, but a constant tiredness, aching joints that lock up, damn I don’t even feel like finishing this sentence.

That being said, I have found that my hands cause a lot of problems, so I will be keeping them to myself in both poetry and in context of my actual hands.

I will write a post of stuff that is going on, soon.

I promise.


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