Time to dig up some graves.

"Juliet knew that, to many people, she might seem to be odd and solitary-- and so, in a way, she was. But she had also had the experience, for much of her life, of feeling surrounded by people who wanted to drain away her attention and her time and her soul. And usually, she let them."

The best type of art, for me, is the kind that makes me want to create something myself. Reading Alice Munro makes me want to write. Yesterday I read the title story in Runaway on my midday break. I started to feel something stirring in me. But... I didn't have enough time to draw it out. Now I feel strangely pressured and lost-- as if I'm growing over myself, like thick vines on a wall, if that makes any sense at all. Something wants out. I can feel it clawing at my insides.

I had such a rich inner life as a teenager. Writing came so easily; it just happened, like breathing. I was more open with myself then. I was depressed, an insomniac, self-loathing-- but open with myself. Often I would stay up all night listening to music and writing, letting the emotion run over me like water. It didn't scare me necessarily, and I had no investment in my daily routine, which challenged me so little that I could afford to be anguished. Clearly that fact as well as the natural state of extreme adolescent narcissism created a prime environment for written exploration of each facet of the aforementioned inner life. I no longer have that luxury. Obviously, what makes it so difficult for me to write now is the efficiency with which I bury my emotions. Unconsciously I think I am afraid to let go and be spontaneous in that expression, since it might unleash something that could compromise my functioning. So... I hold back, despite my need to express, and then I'm unable to truly capture what I need to, so I get frustrated with myself, and give up.

This shit is maddening.