Curtain

Everynight when I come into my room I do the same thing. I close my curtains, change into more suitable snooze attire, open the curtains again, go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, return and clothes my curtains.

It's a habit, means nothing. But this evening I decided once I closed them and had them draped tightly closed that I would leave them that way.

Old habits die hard- curtains open. It makes no difference to the room. i am not keeping anyone out and keeping something in. It just feels better that way.

I must really up the dosage.

I've never dreamt right.

It's selfish to say people don't understand you- did you know?

I dreamt about a little girl painting a picture of her house, there's a man sitting on a couch watching and asking her questions. She ignores him as she bows her head in concentration, her hair covering her face and her little tongue sticking out in stark focus. When she stops painting he picks up the picture and the page is blank.

Why is it blank?

She just smiles at that question.

Then my alarm goes.

Oh now.

I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's a grating metal like feeling- some kind of panicky steel that is worrying me. I think I have forgotten something, or something is going to happen today and I will not be best pleased with the outcome.

Being a habitual worrier I know that this isn't unusual and for people who know me it can be somewhat boring, however why does a mental state of anxiety always have a physical aftertaste.

I decided to research a little before blogging, so then it would not just be a selfish rant of sorts- a little education seemingly goes nowhere however...

Anxiety is a contraction of stimulus both psychological and physiological... but apparently it happens without reason. So that means it's so grey it's hidden- frustating.

Therefore I will try harder to think about why I am worrying.

I'll worry about why I am worrying- seems healthy enough.

Windows is processing...

I really need a new laptop- this poor mite has been struck down by every type of problem it can have- besides being purposely lit on fire. I haven't reached that stage quite yet.

It's slow, annoying and won't do what I want.

Oh wait... it's a man.

BURN.

I've spent the last hour reading about fear and rejection. For no real reason; I was curious and there was nothing on television worth my attention.

It seems to all boil down to people being afraid that their own expectations are greiviously lower than the spectator. I am one of those people who just believes being mediocre is perfectl acceptable and any compliments after that should be taken on the chin, empty gratitude served back over the net to the player and then it's 40 love (that's a sport metaphor...).

Mark Twain was apparently so afraid that people would expect such heights from his writing that he often hid it from his most avid readers, Padraig Pearse had a nervous twitch when he spoke in crowds due to the heavy anticipation of being jeered at (thank you for telling me Mrs. History teacher) and JK Rowling still blushes when walking past her own book on a shelf.

That seems crazy. The most succesful and inspirational people in the world thinking they are not good enough to function in the worlds they have made for themselves by being so obviously talented.

I guess some things will never change.

Tonight I read To Kill A Mockingbird. Again. I'm just at the part where Scout has her new gun targetted at Miss. Maudies behind. Atticus will intervene before she takes up aim. I can always depend on him.