My Head

You've probably realized, by now, how very strange my family is (if not strange, at least fractured). If you read my profile, you'd know that I write a lot. It's kind of what I do. I write, I smile, and I get annoyed. Sometimes, weird things inspire me. My friend was very angry in class once, just raving and pounding her desk, and I immediately had to have a pencil and blank sheet of paper in front of me. I didn't even write anything, I just needed it. The same thing happened when I saw an old friend driving a pickup truck down the street with his hand on his forehead. Small things draw out big emotions from me. Sometimes creations come of it, sometimes just long moments of unbarable restlessness. It can really be bothersome.

Sometimes, thing I do myself can inspire me. I once woke up on a weekend, rubbed my eyes, and stopped my hand in midair in front of me. I must have stared at my hand for half an hour, just awed by it, but the complexities of the angles and the narrowness of my wrist. It made me want to be an artist rather than a writer; it's so difficult to capture everything through words.

I must admit, though, that I am more often annoyed than inspired by people. Unneccesary fear or bickering can put me in the worst moods. I like people who speak through their actions: drawing, writing, working, creating, showing people what they think and feel without blurting it out before they realize how ridiculous it is. And it usually is.

Gosh, do I sound like a prick?