It’s so hard sometimes, being like this, living with a mind that picks something out of literally nothing. Letting the paranoia and anxiety get to me whenever I don’t even have all of the facts. But that part of me is so good at picking up on the most subtle of things, my brain hones in on these things, things I could live without hearing and seeing and knowing.
Sometimes I blame it on my writer’s brain. I blame it on my ability to pick out the most obscure details and turn them into things that they most definitely are not. Maybe not even most definitely, but at least probably not. I blow these “maybe nots” up into “probably are’s” and then over time they turn into “most definitely are’s.” It’s an exhausting way to live, but it’s all I’ve ever known.
I’ve spent the past two days building a fictional world, taking the time to create a place that I would very much enjoy living in, people I would very much like to know, and it makes me like my own world a bit less. That’s the problem with writing fiction, reality is never quite as sweet. Not for me at least. I find myself becoming lost in these worlds, waiting patiently for the next moment when I can return to it. It’s like a drug, it’s my addiction.
I am exhausted. There are too many days when I am exhausted. These days it hasn’t been because of my overthinking brain though, it’s been a normal, pleasant type of exhaustion. It’s been one of work and children and puppies. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it, which is always better than having too much time and nothing to fill it with.
Sometimes I read these beautiful words and I wish they could be about me. I find myself wondering what would happen, what would have happened, mostly what could happen, if I was given the opportunity to experience life in these places, with these people and their words. Would they write words about Me? Have they written something about me? I could only hope so. But I am not there and they are not here and we never, ever meet and so really all I can do is hope that something I’ve said means more to you than it does to those who don’t even take the time to read these words. Those who should already know these words but for some reason don’t care to.