A Travellerspoint blog

Painful Realities and their Consequences

I love to write. The idea of holding a pen in my hand and staring at a blank piece of paper is almost orgasmic. White perfection taunted by a poisin knife, just waiting to stab away its innocence. It has been about three years since I have began writing in the seriousness that so few understand, but all my stories seem the same. Even the poems seem to be similar to my short lived works, uncerimoniously written on scraps of paper or typed in the corners of the internet where they shall never be birthed by a printer. I dont know why I cant seem to finish anything, perhaps I dont want my alternate worlds to end in the closing of a book cover.

Perhaps it is because writing is more of a hobby than a life for me. I have never really considered doing it for a living, I couldnt survive. In months I would be on the street corner again, selling all I had left for a few dollars. Im a whore, thats all there is too it. Even if I did decide to try this risque experiment, my father would all but disown me. "Writers dont make money" he would say "why dont you go back to college and become an engineer?" He has always wanted that, engineer this, engineer that... Probably the last thing (right after military) that I would choose to do.

I dont know if I will even make it to 20, much less finish college.

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New subject. Chile. Okay, if you insist. Last year I went to Chile. Antofagasta, foreign exchange. Time of my life. I made new friends, had a new start... It isnt even real anymore, I feel like Ive been in comotos and now its just *SHEBAM* good morning sunshine, guess what, everything has changed, and your not welcome here anymore.

If there is no place like home than why can you never go back?

Posted by anabellee 08:09 Comments (0)

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