Jasmine: Always Next Week

It’s been eleven days since I’ve posted. Eleven days since I’ve written… anything at all. I’m starting to get that itch. The itch where I need to write put something down on paper. Not necessarily my thoughts, though that’s what this is probably going to end up being. But something. Something out of nothing. That’s what writing really is. Creating something where there was once nothing. Making someone else visualize something. You usually try to make them see a specific something. But mostly they read your words and see what they want, hear it how they want. If you’re good you might be able to direct it. But if you’re not, they’ll still see something.

I know Doug say’s he gets an itch every spring. Like clockwork he needs… a change? Not sure what? But lately I’ve been getting a kind of itch of my own. It went dormant while I was in Seattle. While I was doing something every day. While I was with someone I cared about, someone who I missed, someone who just by being there made me smile. But when I’m away from these types of people I itch. I don’t know what to do. Well I know what I should be doing. Homework, looking for a job, working on my overseas bit, working out, exploring this place. Instead I find myself sitting in my room watching something useless online. Television. The death of creativity. But if it wasn’t the tv it would end up being a book or something. Because this is what I do. And it makes me feel lost, and purposeless. I need to get my ass in gear and do something. And I will. Next week. Always next week.

Random thought thing from yesterday:

The afterlife… I never much believed in life after death. No proof for it, no proof against it. Sure a whole bunch of people claim to have seen ghosts, angels, even demons. But really who are they kidding. Maybe there’s something there, or maybe we just end. Imagine that. Ending. Your consciousness just snuffed out like when you burn a candle to its last. No bringing it back, no relighting that wick. You’re just gone. sounds kind of peaceful. But really it’s not. It’s not hellfire and brimstone pain either. It’s just nothing. As if you never existed. No memory no nothing. No purposelessness driving you mad in a corner. Just nothing. It’s hard to imagine one’s self being nothing.