Wednesday, February 12, 2003

Feeling the urge to write, i pick up a pen and begin to doodle circles within circles within circles, because that is how i'm feeling inside. Ideas and thoughts and emotions fitting within each other like one of those Russian nesting dolls. Tighter circles. Smaller. Less room. Smaller. Less space. Smaller. Mental claustrophobia. Less oxygen to breath. Suffocating, feeling the stresses crush everything within me into a little ball that grows by each second, crushing my ribs, constricting the flow of oxygen and air and life from my lungs leaving me to silently scream within my own ears.

And then, there is silence.

Silence so loud i wonder if i can hear anymore.

But the faint scratch of lead or graphite, or whatever the fuck makes up the composition of my pencil, against thick journal paper startles me out of my private little funk and i come back to the reality of circles.

And looping, it starts all over again.

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