In The Summertime

Okay so I had a proper idea for a story, but of course I couldn't write that. I just rambled crap for a few hundred words about a fictionalised version of myself with my own dissatisfactions and unhappiness.

I hate when that happens. It's like last Summer, the last time I had a proper go at writing anything proper, I got a good 10 - 15 % of the way to a full novel length story, I knew where it was going, what parts to flesh out, everything, it was all aligned in my head.
But instead I got sidetracked with my own emotion. Last Summer, like how I'm feeling now really, I was fucking lonely. I had only split from my girlfriend a few months earlier, some other shit happened, some other girl fucked me over, and another girl, well, too complicated to explain. Let me just say that all my rebounding feeling from my ex went to her straight after. A girl I cared for greatly and, yeah. We don't speak any more. Also, 95% of my friends at the time were my ex's friends, and over that couple of months they gradually stopped talking to me, and even to date, none of them do unless it's for selfish reasons, like to vote for their band to play at some crappy festival, or if they need me for something. On top of that, it was the first Summer since my father had passed. So all in all, I wasn't in a great way, and by the third or fourth day of being in Malta (I had planned to get a lot of writing done here) I had reached breaking point in my head, and I exploded at my mother and sister, just got up from the restaurant table and went back to the hotel, got my journal, a pen, my iPod and went for a walk. 3 hours later I went back to my room, and by then any enthusiasm for the story I was telling had gone and all I was left with was this residual anger and discontentment for my own existence. I wanted to get up and go somewhere. I wanted to leave home, for good. Live somewhere where I didn't know anyone. I would make friends there and have a happy social existence free of all the shit that had fallen onto me in the years before.

And it was only of this I could write. My story ended near the beginning. I haven't gone back to it. I wrote songs about my own unhappiness. I wrote poems about how angry people had made me, and I wrote a thousand words here, and a thousand words there about a version of myself in other universes, where my feelings and thoughts were implanted into different people in different situations. It was a fully depressing task and made me feel worse.

I can feel all these emotions stirring up in me again, and it's scaring me, because I didn't lose them for months afterwards. I don't want them back.

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