I love the feel of the charcoal pencil in my hands.  The heft and the way it spreads across the newsprint: it feels like I’m making it snow and changing the landscape.  I have to let this out.  Tomorrow, I’m going to Pearl to pick up some pencils and newsprint.

I’m bursting with creative energy.  I want to get this out of me.  I need to get this out through my hands, channel it.  It’s almost sexual in nature.  It’s like a desperate horniness, in a way.  I have to cum.  I have to express.  I’m building.  I’m writhing.  Nothing is satisfying me.  I don’t know how to describe this feeling, but I want it to go away.  It’s like a compulsion to express myself.  It’s almost torture.  Get it out.  Get it out.  Get the anxiety out.  If I make you feel like me, in any way, I think, everything will be okay again.

I hate when I have crazy thoughts like this.

Related posts:

1. The Sated Life
2. Freewriting Panic Attack: Waking Nightmares
3. A Little Less Afraid Now
4. Dissociation: One Part of Last Night
5. And at the end of it all, Nothing is resolved.