This weeks lost and found.

Inspiration seem's to be of abundance.
When daylight holds out just an hour longer and I have time to appreciate what the day has been; I imagine myself being able to fill pages with words. Fill books. Fill hours with scribbling to myself;but I reach for that book with the pages prepared to fill hours... and nothing comes.

I used to be able to write no matter the time of day. Stories constantly filled my head, inspiration was indeed abundant.
Over the years I feel as though I've lost myself. Perhaps I simply grew up. More concerned with social aquaintances and romances then the time I used to spend appeasing my mind.
Though through these more 'grown up' years I do infact find myself lost, switching between who I am, who I want to be and who I some how end up being every now and then. I seem to find myself in a constant repeat, a failure in learning from my mistakes. Time and time again I run along with my flamboyant nature, the impulsive side I possess; and time and time again I find myself in the same positions completley aware of how I could have provented them. I begin to wonder if these are concious or subconcious decisions I make. I have a concious desire for emotional saftey and I am aware of the idea that to choose the wrong things means you never find something you couldnt bare to lose, therefore avoiding a greater pain then that of what your wrong decisions cause you.
On the other hand, I have attempted a couple of times to do things the right way and though my actions are different, one could argue I still begin with the wrong choice, thinking stupidly that it may just be completley different to last time. Here is where I question my subconcious, am I doing these things on purpose?
There is no such thing as instant gratification.
There is no such thing as emotional security.
It takes a far lesser amount of time to destroy something then it does to build it.
Being hurt is what being human is about; and we learn nothing from intentionally destroying what we build.
Unless ofcourse we have been building nothing at all.
In which case we are doomed to wondering where our all our towers, our accomplishments have gone, knowing full well that we were too scared to begin constructing them in the first place.

I have started to find myself again with real reason to write. With a real career path that I can write for and at such a young age the recent oppurtunities that have opened up for me are more then I could have imagined; and completley different to what I'd hoped.
I have been lost.
In the late nights.
The cigarettes.
The emotional disatisfaction.
The constant company that prevents a total sense of abandonment.
And the inability to just simply not deal with what bullet life has shot you with this time.
But thats not me, thats her. Thats not how I deal with things.
After a significant wounding I have almost found the will to be me again and I am completley content in sitting in bed in my 1950's silk and lace gown reading a book of 30 pyschological essays; hoping that one day I will be as positive of the lessons in life as Gordon Livingston.