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I'm staring out into the night,
And trying to hide the pain.
I'm going to the place where love
and feeling good don't ever cost a thing,
And the pain you feel's a different kind of pain.
I'm going home to the place where I belong,
where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm running from you know I think you got me all wrong,
I don't regret this life I chose for me.
But these places and these faces are getting old,
So I'm going home.

-Chris Daughtry

10:03 PM
How I wish I was able to...

capture the essence of an emotion with a simple sentence.
move people with small words and simple phrases.
illustrate the heartbreaking beauty of love in all the glory of the english language.
describe the most stunning of views with words that just takes your breath away.

But alas, God gave me a brain with limited vocabulary. Words without any way of threading them into coherent sentences.

Maybe once upon a time, I could... but not anymore.

This vague and very depressing thought has been lurking in the deepest recesses of my brains ever since I recieved my essay back with the red ink splattered all over and the words, "Very disappointing" burnt into the paper. I have to say, it was a long time coming and a jolly good jolt. Took me down a notch or 2, right back to where I belonged: in the dumps.

Problem is, I don't see any way of climbing back to where I stood. Call it writer's block if you want, but it's been a damn long time and I'm getting frusrated with all the time spent in front of the computer, willing myself to compose something - anything - that resembles coherence until my old friend (first name: the damn, last name: headache) knocks on my cranium with all the consideration of the italian mafia and tells me that it's bedtime. After which I have discovered that a writer feels no qualms about trashing what she wrote if she feels that it isn't good enough, even if she did spend the last 2 hours slaving over the entry in the warm summer night. Especially so if the entry reeked of incompetence.

Ugh.