(I believe this is the Manics feat. Nina Pearsson?)
I'm actually faintly ashamed reading back at the, quite frankly, pathetic amount/calibre of posts I've done recently. I'm not really sure whether its CAUSED by this or is a consequence of the fact that I'm being equally useless with my private diary (the good old fashioned pen-paper kind), but I don't think I like it. This used to be my thing you know? I used to write all the time, and somehow I've just gotten out the habit of doing what this is: a spontaneous late night post, because the ones I've crafted aren't as raw and real as these ones.
I'm worried that I don't do anything 'me' anymore.
I'm not one hundred percent sure of how to communicate this, its like since I've figured myself out, I'm not spending any time on me, and yet somehow I've also become way more self absorbed. It's a catch 22, lose-lose situation and I have no idea how its happened. It frightened me the other day that I'm not sure i have any dreams anymore, what I have instead are plans, instructions. I'm afraid I've become less whimsical and creative, more methodical and well, boring. Like i seem to have lost my passion for things that were once screamingly important to me in favour of dwelling on the next steps i have to take, and I hate it.
Pretty much counting on Spring Harvest to fix me, though I realise i've essentially pinned the answer to all my problems on five days in Somerset, though, to be brutal, if anything has a shot its there. It's just, monotone where things used to be vivid and glittering.
Because I've got pretty much everything I've ever wanted, and i'm simaltaneously craning my neck to see whats ahead, and dragging my feet in protest at walking towards a new direction.
At the moment I'm testing myself constantly, to see if I'm good enough at the things that define (confine?) me. Just because I've been desperately chasing after them doesn't automatically make me good enough, and i just really need a win right now.
